LOCKSLEY HALL 

SIXTY YEARS AFTER 

AND 

THE PROMISE OF MAY 



LOCKSLEY HALL 

SIXTY YEARS AFTER 



ETC. 



BY 

ALFRED 
LORD TENNYSON 

P.L., D.C.L. 



NEW YORK 
HARPER & BROTHERS, FRANKLIN SQUARE 

1887 



?^ 






TRANSfER 

98 

f:C 194!. 
x)rd EH vision 
y of Coo0rM8 



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TO MY WIFE 
)J IDctiicate 

THIS DRAMATIC MONOLOGUE 

AND 
THE POEMS WHICH FOLLOW 



i-9f1i; 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

LocKSLEY Hall Sixty Years after . . . i 

The Fleet 38 

Opening of the Indian and Colonial Exhibi- 
tion BY THE Queen 42 

The Promise of May 45 



LOCKSLEY HALL 
SIXTY YEARS AFTER 



LOCKSLEY HALL 

SIXTY YEARS AFTER. 



Late, my grandson ! half the morning have I 

paced these sandy tracts, 
Watch'd again the hollow ridges roaring into 

cataracts, 

Wander'd back to living boyhood while I heard 

the curlews call, 
I myself so close on death, and death itself in 

Locksley Hall. 



4 LOCKSLEY HALL 

So — your happy suit was blasted — she the fault- 
less, the divine ; 

And you liken — boyish babble— this boy-love ot 
yours with mine. 

I myself have often babbled doubtless of a fool- 
ish past ; 

Babble, babble ; our old England may go down 
in babble at last. 

" Curse him !" curse your fellow-victim ? call him 

dotard in your rage? 
Eyes that lured a doting boyhood well might fool 

a dotard's age. 

Jilted for a wealthier! wealthier.? yet perhaps 

she was not wise ; 
I remember how you kiss'd the miniature with 

those sweet eves. 



SIXTY YEARS AFTER. 5 

In the hall there hangs a painting — Amy's arms 

about my neck — 
Happy children in a sunbeam sitting on the ribs 

of wreck. 

In my life there was a picture, she that clasp'd 

my neck had flown ; 
I was left within the shadow sitting on the wreck 

alone. 

Yours has been a slighter ailment, will you sicken 

for her sake ? 
You, not you ! your modern amourist is of easier, 

earthlier make. 

Amy loved me, Amy fail'd me. Amy was a timid 

child ; 
But your Judith — but your worldling — s/ie had 

never driven me wild. 



6 LOCKSLEY HALL 

She that holds the diamond necklace dearer than 

the golden ring, 
She that finds a winter sunset fairer than a morn 

of Spring. 



She that in her heart is brooding on his briefer 

lease of life, 
While she vows " till death shall part us," she the 

would-be-widow wife. 

She the worldling born of worldlings — father, 
mother — be content, 

Ev'n the homely farm can teach us there is some- 
thing in descent. 

Yonder in that chapel, slowly sinking now into 

the ground, 
Lies the warrior, my forefather, with his feet upon 

the hound. 



SIXTY YEARS AFTER. 7 

Crossed ! for once he saiFd the sea to crush the 

Moslem in his pride ; 
Dead the warrior, dead his glory, dead the cause 

in which he died. 

Yet how often I and Amy in the mouldering 
aisle have stood. 

Gazing for one pensive moment on that found- 
er of our blood. 

There again I stood to-day, and where of old we 

knelt in prayer, 
Close beneath the casement crimson with the 

shield of Locksley — there. 

All in white Italian marble, looking still as if she 
smiled. 

Lies my Amy dead in child-birth, dead the moth- 
er, dead the child. 



8 LOCKS LEY HALL 

Dead — and sixty years ago, and dead her aged 

husband now, 
I this old white-headed dreamer stoopt and kiss'd 

her marble brow. 

Gone the fires of youth, the follies, furies, curses, 

passionate tears, 
Gone like fires and floods and earthquakes of the 

planet's dawning years. 

Fires that shook me once, but now to silent ashes 

fall'n away. 
Gold upon the dead volcano sleeps the gleam of 

dying day. 

Gone the tyrant of my youth, and mute below tlie 

chancel stones, 
All his virtues— I forgive them — black in white 

above his bones. 



SIXTY YEARS AFTER. 9 

Gone the comrades of my bivouaCj some in fight 

against the foe. 
Some thro' age and slow diseases, gone as all on 

earth will go. 



Gone with whom for forty years my life in golden 

sequence ran, 
She with all the charm of woman, she with all the 

breadth of man, 

Strong in will and rich in wisdom, Edith, loyal, 

lowly, sweet, 
Feminine to her inmost heart, and feminine to 

her tender feet, 

Very woman of very woman, nurse of ailing body 

and mind. 
She that link'd again the broken chain that bound 

me to my kind. 



lo LOCKSLEY HALL 

Here to-day was Amy with me, while I wancler'd 

down the coast, 
Near us Edith's holy shadow, smiling at the 

slighter ghost. 

Gone our sailor son thy father, Leonard early lost 

at sea ; 
Thou alone, my boy, of Amy's kin and mine art 

left to me. 

Gone thy tender-natured mother, wearying to be 

• * left alone, 
Pining for the stronger heart that once had beat 
beside her own. 

Truth, for Truth is Truth, he worshipt, being true 

as he was brave ; 
Good, for Good is Good, he follow'd, yet he look'd 

beyond the grave, 



SIXTY YEARS AFTER. ii 

Wiser there than you, that crowning barren Death 

as lord of all, 
Deem this over-tragic drama's closing curtain is 

the pall ! 

Eeautiful was death in him who saw the death but 

kept the deck, 
Saving women and their babes, and sinking with 

the sinking wreck. 

Gone forever! Ever? no — for since our dying 

race began, 
Ever, ever, and forever was the leading light of 

man. 

Those that in barbarian burials kilPd the slave, 

and slew the wife. 
Felt within themselves the sacred passion of the 

second life. 



12 LOCKSLEY HALL 

Indian warriors dream of ampler hunting-grounds 

be3'ond the night ; 
Ev'n the bLack Australian, dying, hopes he shall 

return, a white. 

Truth for truth, and good for good ! The Good, 

the True, the Pure, the Just ; 
Take the charm " Forever " from them, and they 

crumble into dust. 

Gone the cry of " Forward, Forward," lost within 

a growing gloom ; 
Lost, or only heard in silence from the silence of 

a tomb. 

Half the marvels of my morning, triumphs over 

time and space, 
Staled by frequence, shrunk by usage into com 

monest commonplace ! 



SIXTY YEARS AFTER. 13 

" Forward " rang the voices then, and of the many 
mine was one. 

Let us hush this cry of "Forward" till ten thou- 
sand years have gone. 

Far among the vanish'd races, old Assyrian kings 
would flay 

Cnptives vv'hom they caught in battle — iron- 
hearted victors they. 

Ages after, while in Asia, he that led the wild 

Moguls, 
Timur built his ghastly tower of eighty thousand 

human skulls. 

Then, and here in Edward's time, an age of no- 
blest English names, 

Christian conquerors took and flung the conquer'd 
Christian into flames. 



14 LOCKSLEY HALL 

Love your enemy, bless your haters, said the 

Greatest of the great ; 
Christian love among the Churches look'd the 

twin of heathen hate. 

From the golden alms of Blessing man had coin'd 
himself a curse ! 

Rome of Cassar, Rome of Peter, which was cruel- 
ler? which was worse? 

France had shown a light to all men, preach'd a 

Gospel, all men's good ; 
Celtic Demos rose a Demon, shriek'd and slaked 

the light with blood. 

Hope was ever on her mountain, watching till the 

day begun 

Crovvn'd with sunlight— over darkness — from the 
still unrisen sun. 



SIXTY YEARS AFTER. 15 

Have we grown at last beyond the passions of 

the primal clan ? 
"Kill your enemy, for you hate him," still, "your 

enemy " was a man. 

Have we sunk below them ? peasants main the 
helpless horse, and drive 

Innocent cattle under thatch, and burn the kind- 
lier brutes alive. 

Brutes, the brutes are not your wrongers — burnt 

at midnight, found at morn, 
Twisted hard in mortal agony with their offspring, 

born-unborn. 

Clinging to the silent Mother! Are we devils? 

are we men "> 
Sweet St. Francis of Assisi, would that he were 

here again. 



i6 LOCKSLEY HALL 

He that in his Catholic wholeness used to call the 

very flowers 
Sisters, brothers — and the beasts — whose pains 

are hardly less than ours ! 

Chaos, Cosmos ! Cosmos, Chaos ! who can tell 

how all will end ! 
Read the wide world's annals, you, and take their 

wisdom for your friend. 

Hope the best, but hold the Present fatal daugh- 
ter of the Past, 

Shape your heart to front the hour, but dream not 
that the hour will last. 

Ay, if dynamite and revolver leave you courage 
to be wise : 

When was age so cramm'd with menace t mad- 
ness? written, spoken lies? 



SIXTY YEARS AFTER. 17 

Envy wears the mask of Love, and, laughing sober 

fact to scorn. 
Cries to Weakest as to Strongest, "Ye are equals, 

equal-born." 

Equal-born ? Oh, yes, if yonder hill be level with 

the flat. 
Charm us, Orator, till the Lion look no larger than 

the Cat. 

Till the Cat thro' that mirage of overheated lan- 
guage loom 

Larger than the Lion,— Demos end in working its 
own doom. 

Russia bursts our Indian barrier, shall we fight 

her? shall we yield ? 
Pause, before you sound the trumpet, hear the 

voices from the field. 

2 



i8 . LOCKSLEY HALL 

Those three hundred millions under one Imperial 

sceptre now, 
Shall we hold them ? shall we loose them ? take 

the suffrage of the plough. 

Nay, but these would feel and follow Truth if only 

you and you, 
Rivals of realm-ruining party, when you speak were 

wholly true. 

Ploughmen, Shepherds, have I found, and more 

than once, and still could find. 
Sons of God, and kings of men in utter nobleness 

of mind, 

Truthful, trustful, looking upward to the practised 

hustings-liar; 
So the Higher wields the Lower, while the Lower 

is the Higher. 



SIXTY YEARS AFTER. 19 

Here and there a cotter's babe is royal-born by 

right divine ; 
Here and there my lord is lower than bis oxen or 

his swine. 

Chaos, Cosmos! Cosmos, Chaos! once again the 

sickening game ; 
Freedom, free to slay herself, and dying while they 

shout her name. 

Step by step we gain'd a freedom known to Europe, 

known to all ; 
Step by step we rose to greatness,— thro' the 

tonguesters we may fall. 

You that woo the Voices— tell them " old experi- 
ence is a fool," 

Teach your flatter'd kings that only those who 
cannot read can rule. 



26 LOCKSLEY HALL 

Pluck the mighty from their seat, but set no meek 

ones in their place ; 
Pillory Wisdom in your markets, pelt your offal at 

her fiice. 

Tumble Nature heel o'er head, and, yelling with 

the yelling street, 
Set the feet above the brain and swear the brain 

is in the feet. 

Bring the old dark ages back without the faith, 

without the hope. 
Break the State, the Church, the Throne, and roll 

their ruins down the slope. 

Authors — atheist, essayist, novelist, realist, rhyme- 
ster, play your part. 

Paint the mortal shame of nature with the living 
hues of Art. 



SIXTY YEARS AFTER. 21 

Rip your brothers' vices open, strip your own foul 
passions bare ; 

Down with Reticence, down with Reverence — for- 
ward — naked — let them stare. 

Feed the budding rose of boyhood with the drain- 
age of your sewer ; 

Send the drain into the fountain, lest the stream 
should issue pure. 

Set the maiden fancies wallowing in the troughs 

of Zolaism, — 

* 
Forward, forward, ay and backward, downward too 

into the abysm. 

Do your best to charm the worst, to lower the ris- 
ing race of men ; 

Have we risen from out the beast, then back into 
the beast again ? 



22 LOCKS LEY HALL 

Only "dust to dust" for me that sicken at your 

lawless din, 
Dust in wholesome old-woiid dust before the 

newer world begin. 

Heated am I ? you — you wonder — well, it scarce 

becomes mine age — 
Patience ! let the dying actor mouth his last upon 

the stage. 

Cries of unprogressive dotage ere the dotard fall 

asleep? 
Noises of a current narrowing, not the music of a 

deep ? 

Ay, for doubtless I am old, and think gray 

thoughts, for I am gray : 
After all the stormy changes shall we find a 

changeless May ? 



SIXTY YEARS AFTER. 23 

After madness, after massacre, Jacobinism and 

Jacquerie, 
Some diviner force to guide us thro' the days I 

shall not see? 

When the schemes and all the systems, Kingdoms 

and Republics fall, 
Something kindlier, higher, holier— all for each 

and each for all ? 

All the full-brain, half-brain races, led by Justice, 

Love, and Truth ; 
All the millions one at length, with all the visions 

of my youth ? 

All diseases quench'd by Science, no man halt, or 

deaf, or blind ; 
Stronger ever born of weaker, lustier body, larger 

mind ? 



24 LOCKS LEY HALL 



Earth at last a warless world, a single race, a 

single tongue, 
I have seen her far away — for is not Earth as yet 

so young? — 



Every tiger madness muzzled, every serpent pas- 
sion kill'd, 

Every grim ravine a garden, every blazing desert 
till'd, 

Robed in universal harvest up to either pole she 

smiles, 
Universal ocean softly washing all her warless 

Isles. 

Warless? when her tens are thousands, and her 

thousands millions, then — 
All her harvest all too narrow — who can fancy 

warless men? 



SIXTY YEARS AFTER. 25 

Warless ? war will die out late then. Will it ever ? 

late or soon ? 
Can it, till this outworn earth be dead as yon dead 

world the moon ? 

Dead the new astronomy calls her. ... On this 

day and at this hour, 
In this gap between the sandhills, whence you see 

the Locksley tower, 

Here we met, our latest meeting— Amy— sixty 

years ago — 
She and I— the moon was falling greenish thro' a 

rosy glow, 

Just above the gateway tower, and even where you 

see her now — 
Here we stood and claspt each other, swore the 

seeming-deathless vow. ... 



26 LOCKSLEY HALL 

Dead, but how her living glory lights the hall, the 

dune, the grass ! 
Yet the moonlight is the sunlight, and the sun 

himself will pass. 

Venus near her ! smiling downward at this earlh- 
lier earth of ours. 

Closer on the Sun, perhaps a world of never fad- 
ing flowers. 

Hesper, whom the poet call'd the Bringer home 

of all good things. 
All good things may move in Hesper, perfect 

peoples, perfect kings. 

Hesper — Venus — were we native to that splendor 

or in Mars, 
We should see the Globe we groan in, fairest of 

their evening stars. 



SIXTY YEARS AFTER. 27 

Could we dream of wars and carnage, craft and 

madness, lust and spite, 
Roaring London, raving Paris, in that point of 

peaceful light? 

Might we not in glancing heavenward on a star 

so silver-fair. 
Yearn, and clasp the hands and murmur, " Would 

to God that we were there ?" 

Forward, backward, backward, forward, in the im- 
measurable sea, 

Sway'd by vaster ebbs and flows than can be 
known to you or me. 

All the suns— are these but symbols of innumer- 
able man, 

Man or Mind that sees a shadow of the planner 
or the plan ? 



28 LOCKS LEY HALL 

Is there evil but on earth ? or pain in every peo- 
pled sphere ? 

Well be grateful for the sounding watchword, 
" Evolution " here. 

Evolution ever climbing after some ideal good, 
And Reversion ever dragging Evolution in the 
mud. 

\A'hat are men that He should heed us ? cried the 

king of sacred song ; 
Insects of an hour, that hourly work their brother 

insect wrong, 

"While the silent Heavens roll, and Suns along 

their fiery way, 
All their planets whirling round them, flash a 

million miles a dav. 



SIXTY YEARS AFTER. 29 

Many an ^on moulded earth before her highest, 
man, was born. 

Many an ^on too may pass when earth is man- 
less and forlorn, 

Earth so huge, and yet so bounded — pools of salt, 
and plots of land — 

Shallow skin of green and azure — chains of moun- 
tain, grains of sand ! 

Only That which made us, meant us to be mightier 

by and by, 
Set the sphere of all the boundless Heavens within 

the human eye. 

Sent the shadow of Himself, the boundless, thro' 
the human soul. 

Boundless inward, in the atom, boundless out- 
ward, in the Whole. 



30 LOCKS LEY HALL 

Here is Locksley Hall, my grandson, here the 

lion -guarded gate. 
Not to-night in Locksley Hall — to-morrow — yon, 

you come so late. 

Wreck'd — your train — or all but wreck'd ? a shat- 

ter'd wheel ? a vicious boy ! 
Good, this forward, you that preach it, is it well 

to wish you joy ? 

Is it well that while we range with Science, glory- 
ing in the Time, 

City children soak and blacken soul and sense in 
city slime ? 

There among the glooming alleys Progress halts 
on palsied feet, 

Crime and hunger cast our maidens by the thou- 
sand on the street. 



SIXTY YEARS AFTER, 31 

There the ]\Iastcr scrimps his haggard sempstress 

of her daily bread, 
There a single sordid attic holds the living and 

the dead. 

There the smouldering fire of fever creeps across 

the rotted floor, 
And the crowded couch of incest in the warrens 

of the poor. 

Na}', your pardon, cry your " forward," yours are 

hope and youth, but I — 
Eighty winters leave the dog too lame to follow 

with the cry, 

Lame and old, and past his time, and passing 

now into the night; 
Yet I would the rising race were half as eager 

for the li^ht. 



32 LOCKS LEY HALL 

Light the fading gleam of Even ? light the glim- 
mer of the dawn ? 

Aged eyes may take the growing glimmer for the 
gleam withrawn. 

Far away beyond her myriad coming changes 

earth will be 
Something other than the wildest modern guess 

of you and me. 

Earth may reach her earthly-worst, or if she gain 

her earthly-best, 
Would she find her human offspring this ideal 

man at rest ? 

Forward then, but still remember how the course 

of Time will swerve. 
Crook and turn upon itself in many a backward 



SIXTY YEARS AFTER. 33 

Not the Hall to-night, my grandson ! Death and 

Silence hold their own. 
Leave the Master in the first dark hour of his 

last sleep alone. 

Worthier soul was he than I am, sound and hon- 
est, rustic Squire, 

Kindly landlord, boon companion— youthful jeal- 
ousy is a liar. 

Cast the poison from your bosom, oust the mad- 
ness from your brain. 

Let the trampled serpent show you that you have 
not lived in vain. 

Youthful ! youth and age are scholars yet but in 
the lower school. 

Nor is he the wisest man who never proved him- 
self a fool. 
3 



34 LOCKSLEY HALL 

Yonder lies our young sea-village — Art and Grace 

are less and less ; 
Science grows and Beauty dwindles — roofs of 

slated hideousness ! 

There is one old Hostel left us where they swing 
the Locksley shield, 

Till the peasant cow shall butt the " Lion pas- 
sant" from his field. 

Poor old Heraldry, poor old History, poor old 

Poetry, passing hence, 
]n the common deluge drowning old political 

common-sense ! 

Poor old voice of eighty crying after voices that 

have fled ! 
All I loved are vanish'd voices, all my steps are 

on the dead. 



SIXTY YEARS AFTER. 35 

All the world is ghost to me, and as the phantom 

disappears, 
Forward far and far from here is all the hope of 

eighty years. 



In this Hostel — I remember — I repent it o'er 

his grave — 
Like a clown — by chance he met me — I refused 

the hand he gave. 

From that casement where the trailer mantles 

all the mouldering bricks — 
I was then in early boyhood, Edith but a child 

of six, 

While I shelter'd in this archway from a day of 

driving showers — 
Peept the v/insome face of Edith like a flower 

amons: the flowers. 



36 LOCKS LEY HALL 

Here to-night ! the Hall to-morrow, when they 

toll the Chapel bell ! 
Shall I hear in one dark room a wailing, " I 

have loved thee well." 



Then a peal that shakes the portal — one has 

come to claim his bride, 
Her that shrank, and put me from her, shriek'd, 

and started from my side — 

Silent echoes ! yon, my Leonard, use and not 

abuse your day. 
Move among your people, know them, follow 

him who led the way, 

Strove for sixty widow'd years to help his home- 
lier brother men. 

Served the poor, and built the cottage, raised 
the school, and drain'd the fen. 



SIXTY YEARS AFTER. 37 

Hears he now the Voice that wrong'd him ? who 

shall swear it cannot be ? 
Earth would never touch her worst, were one in 

fifty such as he. 

Ere she gain her Heavenly - best, a God must 

mingle with the game : 
Nay, there may be those about us whom we neither 

see nor name, 

Felt within us as ourselves, the Powers of Good, 

the Powers of 111, 
Strowing balm, or shedding poison in the fountains 

of the Will. 

Follow you the Star that light? a desert pathway, 

yours or mine. 
Forward, till you see the highest Human Nature 

is divine. 



38 LOCKSLEY HALL 

Follow Light, and do the Right— for man can half- 
control his doom — 

Till you find the deathless Angel seated in the 
vacant tomb. 

Forward, let the stormy moment fly and mingle 

with the Past. 
I that loathed, have come to love him. Love will 

conquer at the last. 

Gone at eighty, mine own age, and I and you will 

bear the pall ; 
Then I leave thee Lord and Master, latest Lord 

of Locksley Hall. 



THE FLEET. 



I. 

You, you, ?/" you shall fail to understand 
What England is, and what her all-in-all, 

On you will come the curse of all the land, 
Should this old England fall 
Which Nelson left so great. 

'The speaker said that "he should like to be assured 
that other outlying portions of the Empire, the Crown 
colonies, and important coaling stations were being as 
promptly and as thoroughly fortified as the various capitals 
of the self-governing colonies. He was credibly informed 
this was not so. It was impossible, also, not to feel some 
degree of anxiety about the efficacy of present provision to 
defend and protect, by means of swift, well-armed cruisers, 
the immense mercantile fleet of the Empire. A third source 



40 THE FLEET. 

II. 

His isle, the mightiest Ocean-power on earth, 
Our own fair isle, the lord of every sea — 

Her fuller franchise — what would that be worth — 
Her ancient fame of Free — 

Were she ... a fallen state ? 

of anxiety, so far as the colonies were concerned, was the 
apparently insufficient provision for the rapid manufacture 
of armaments and their prompt despatch when ordered to 
their colonial destination. Hence the necessity for manu- 
facturing appliances equal to the requirements, not of Great 
Britain alone, but of the whole Empire. But the keystone 
of the whole was the necessity for an overwhelmingly power- 
ful fleet and efficient defence for all necessary coaling stations. 
This was as essential for the colonies as for Great Britain. 
It was the one condition for the continuance of the Empire. 
All that Continental Powers did with respect to armies 
England should effect with her navy. It was essentially a 
defensive force, and could be moved rapidly from point to 
point, but it should be equal to all that was expected from 
it. It was to strengthen the fleet that colonists would first 
readily tax themselves, because they realized how essential a 
powerful fleet was to the safety, not only of that extensive 
commerce sailing in every sea, but ultimately to the security 



THE FLEET. 4I 

III. 
Her dauntless army scatter'd, and so small, 

Her island-myriads fed from alien lands — 
The fleet of England is her all-in-all; 
Her fleet is in your hands, 

And in her fleet her Fate. 

IV. 

You, you, that have the ordering of her fleet. 
If you. should only compass her disgrace. 

When all men starve, the wild mob's million feet 
Will kick you from your place, 
But then too late, too late. 



of the distant portions of the Empire. Who could estimato 
the loss involved in even a brief period of disaster to the 
Imperial Navy ? Any amount of money timely expended in 
preparation would be quite insignificant when compared with 
the possible calamity he referred to." — Extract from Sir 
Graham Berry's Speech at the Colonial Institute, ^th Novem- 
ber, 1 886. 



OPENING OF THE INDIAN AND 
COLONIAL EXHIBITION BY THE QUEEN. 



Welcome, welcome with one voice ! 
In your welfare we rejoice, 
Sons and brothers that have sent, 
From isle and cape and continent, 
Produce of your field and flood. 
Mount and mine, and primal wood ; 
Works of subtle brain and hand, 
And splendors of the morning land. 
Gifts from every British zone ; 
Britons, hold your own ! 



OPENING OF THE EXHIBITION 43 



II. 



May we find, as ages run, 
The mother featured in the son ; 
And may yours forever be 
That old strength and constancy 
Which has made your fathers great 
In our ancient island State, 
And wherever her flag fly, 
Glorying between sea and sky, 
Makes the might of Britain known ; 
Britons hold your own ! 

III. 

Britain fought her sons of yore — 
Britain failed ; and never more, 
Careless of our growing kin. 
Shall we sin our fathers' sin, 
Men that in a narrower day— 



44 OPENING OF THE EXHIBITION 

Unprophetic rulers ihey — 
Drove from out the mother's nest 
That young eagle of the West 
To forage for herself alone ; 
Britons, hold your own ! 

IV. 

Sharers of our glorious past, 
Brothers, must we part at last ? 
Shall we not thro' good and ill 
Cleave to one another still ? 
Britain's myriad voices call, 
" Sons, be welded each and all 
Into one imperial whole, 
One with Britain, heart and soul ! 
One life, one flag, one fleet, one Throne!" 
Britons, hold your own ! 



THE PROMISE OF MAY 



" A surface man of theories, true to none 



DRAMATIS PERSONjT:. 

Farmer Dobson. 

Mr. Philip Edgar {^afterivards INIr. Harold), 
Farmer Steer (Dora and Eva's Father). 
Mr. Wilson {a Schoolmaster). 

HiGGINS 

James 

Dan Smith \ Farm Laborers. 

Jackson 

Allen 

Dora Steer. 

Eva Steer. 

Sally Allen ) 

\ Farm Servants. 
MiLLY ) 

Farm Servants, Laborers, ete. 



THE PROMISE OF MAY. 



ACT I. 

Scene. — Before Farmhouse. 

Farming Men and Women. Farming Men carrying forms, 
etc., Women carrying baskets of knives and forks, etc. 

1ST Farming Man. 
Be thou a-f^jawin' to the long barn ? 

2D Farming Man. 
Ay, to be sewer ! Be thou ? 

1ST Farming Man. 

Why, o' coorse, fur it be the owcl man's birth- 
4 



50 THE PROMISE OF MA V. act i. 

daily. He be heighty this very daay, and 'e tolled 
all on us to be i' the long barn by one o'clock, fur 
he'll gie us a big dinner, and haafe th' parish '11 be 
theer, an' Miss Dora, an' Miss Eva, an' all ! 



2D Farming Man. 
Miss Dora be coomed back% then ? 

1ST Farming Man. 

Ay, haafe an hour ago. She be in theer now. 
(Pointing to house.) Owd Steer wur afeard she 
wouldn't be back i' time to keep his birthdaay, and 
he wur in a tew about it all the murnin' ; and he 
sent me \vi' the gig to Litilechester to fetch 'er ; 
and 'er an' the owd man they fell a kissin' o' one 
another like two sweet'arts i' the poorch as soon 
as he clapt eyes of 'er. 



ACT I. THE PROMISE OF MAY. 51 

2D Farming Man. 
Foalks says he likes Miss Eva the best. 

1ST Farming Man. 
Naay, I knaws nowt o' what foalks says, an' I 
caares nowt neither. Foalks doesn't hallus knaw 
thessens ; but sewer I be, they be two o' the piirti- 
est gels ye can see of a summer murnin'. 

2D Farming Man. 
Beant Miss Eva gone off a bit of 'er good looks 
o' Inate? 

1ST Farming Man. 
Noa, not a bit. 

2D Farming Man. 
Why coom awaay, then, to the long barn. 

{Exeunt. 



52 THE PROMISE OF MA V. act i. 

Dora /oo/cs out of loindow. Enter Dobson. 

Dora (singing). 
The town lay still in the low sunlight, 
The hen cluckt late by the white farm gate. 
The maid to her dairy came in from the cow, 
The stock-dove coo'd at the fall of night, 
The blossom had open'd on every bough; 
Oh, joy for the promise of May, of May, 
Oh, joy for the promise of May. 
(Nodding at Dobson. J I'm coming down, Mr. 
Dobson. I haven't seen Eva yet. Is she any- 
where in the garden? 

Dobson. 
Noa, Miss. I ha'n't seed 'er neither. 

Dora (enters singing). 
But a red fire woke in the heart of the town, 



AC r I. THE PROMISE OF MA K 53 

And a fox from the glen ran away with the hen, 
And a cat to the cream, and a rat to the cheese ; 
And the stock-dove coo'd, till a kite dropt down, 
And a salt wind burnt the blossoming trees \ 
Oh, grief for the promise of May, of May, 
Oh, grief for the promise of May. 

I don't know why I sing that song ; I don't love it. 

DOBSON. 

Blessings on your pretty voice. Miss Dora. 
Wheer did 4hey larn ye that ? 

Dora. 
In Cumberland, Mr. Dobson. 

DOBSON. 

An' how did ye leave the owd uncle i' Coom- 
berland ? 



54 THE PROMISE OF MA V. act i. 

Dora. 
Getting better, Mr. Dobson. But he'll never be 
the same man again. 

Dobson. 
An' how d'ye find the owd man 'ere? 

Dora. 
As well as ever. I came back to keep his 
birthday. 

Dobson. 

Well, I be coomed to keep his birthdaay, an' all. 
The owd man be heighty to-daay, beant he ? 

Dora. 
Yes, Mr. Dobson. And the day's bright like a 
friend, but the wind east like an enemy. Help me 
to move this bench for him into the sun. (T/iej> 



ACT I. THE PROMISE OF MA V. 55 

j/iove bench.) No, not that way — here, under the 
apple-tree. Thank you. Look how full of rosy 
blossom it is. {^Pointing to apple-tree. 

DOBSON. 

Theer be redder blossoms nor them, Miss 
Dora. 

Dora. 
Where do they blow, Mr. Dobson ? 

DOBSON. 

Under your eyes, Miss Dora. 

Dora. 
Do they? 

Dobson. 
And your eyes be as blue as — 

Dora. 
What, Mr. Dobson ? A butcher's frock ? 



56 THE PROMISE OF MA Y, act i. 

DOESON. 

Noa, Miss Dora : as blue as — 

Dora. 

Bluebell, harebell, speedwell, bluebottle, suc- 
cory, forget-me-not ? 

DOBSON. 

Noa, Miss Dora ; as blue as — 

Dora. 
The sky ? or the sea on a blue day ? 

DOBSON, 

Naay then. I mean'd they be as blue as 
violets. 

Dora. 
Are they.? 

DOBSON. 

Theer ye goas ngeiin, Miss, niver believing owt 



ACT I. THE PROMISE OF MA Y. 57 

I says to ye — hallus a-fobbing ma off, Iho' ye 
knaws I love ye. I warrants ye'll think moor o' 
this young Squire Edgar as ha' coomed among us 
— the Lord knaws how — ye'll think more on 'is 
little finger than hall my hand at the haltar. 

Dora. 
Perhaps, Master Dobson. I can't tell, for I 
have never seen him. But my sister wrote that 
he was mighty pleasant, and had no pride in him. 

Dobson. 
He'll be arter you now, Miss Dora. 

Dora. 
Will he ? How can I tell ? 

Dobson. 
He's been arter Miss Eva, haan't he? 



SS THE PROMISE OF MA K act i. 

Dora. 
Not that I know. 

DOBSON. 

Didn't I spy 'em a-sitting i' the woodbine har- 
bor togither? 

Dora. 
What of that ?. Eva told me that he was taking 
her likeness. He's an artist. 



DOBSON. 

What's a hartist 1 I doant believe he's iver a 
'eart under his waistcoat. And I tells ye what, 
Miss Dora: he's no respect for the Queen, or the 
parson, or the justice o' peace, or owt. I ha' 
heard 'im a-gawin' on 'ud make your 'air — God 
bless it! — stan' on end. And wuss nor that. 



ACT I. THE PROMISE OF MA Y. 59 

AVhen theer wur a meeting o' farmers at Little- 
chester t'other daay, and they was all a-crying out 
at the bad times, he cooms up, and he calls out 
among our oan men, "The land belongs to the 
people !" 

Dora. 
And what did yoii- say to that? 

DOBSON. 

Well, I says, s'pose my pig's the land, and you 
says it belongs to the parish, and theer be a thou- 
sand i' the parish, taakin' in the women and 
childerj and s'pose I kills my pig, and gi'es it 
among 'em, why there wudn't be a dinner for 
nawbody, and I should ha' lost the pig. 

Dora. 
And what did he say to that.? 



6o THE PROMISE OF MA K act i. 

DOBSON. 

Nowt — what could he saciy? But I taakes 'ini 
fur a bad lot and a burn fool, and I haates the 
very sight on him. 

Dora. 
(Looking at DobsonJ Master Dobson, you 
are a comely man to look at. 

Dobson. 
I thank you for that, Miss Dora, onyhow. 

Dora. 
Ay, but you turn right ugly when you're in an 
ill-temper j and I promise you that if you forget 
yourself in your behavior to this gentleman, my 
father's friend, I will never change word with you 
again. 

Enter Farming Man from ham. 



ACT I. THE PROMISE OF MA Y. 6i 

Farming Man. 
Miss, the farming men 'ull hev their dinner i' 
the long barn, and the master 'ud be straange an' 
pleased if you'd step in fust, and see that all be 
right and reg'lar fur 'em afoor he coom. 

\Exit. 

Dora. 

I go. Master Dobson, did you hear what I 
said ? 

Dobson. 
Yeas, yeas ! I'll not meddle \vi' 'im if he doant 
meddle wi' mea. (Exit Dora.^ Coomly, says she. 
I niver thowt o' mysen i' that waay ; but if she'd 
taake to ma i' that waiiy, or ony waiiy, I'd slaiive 
out my life fur 'er. "Coomly to look at," says 
she — but she said it spiteful-like. To look at — 
yeas, "coomly"; and she mayn't be so fur out 



62 THE PROMISE OF MA V. act i. 

theer. But if that be nowt to she, then it be 
nowt to me. (Looking off stage.) Schoohnaster ! 
Why if Steer ha'n't haxed schoohnaster to dinner, 
thaw 'e knaws I was hallus agean heving schoo-l- 
master i' the parish ! fur him as be handy wi' a 
book bean't but haafe a hand at a pitchfork. 

Enter Wilson. 
Well, Wilson. I seed that one cow o' thine i' 
the pinfold agean as I wur a-coomin' 'ere. 

Wilson. 
Very likely, Mr. Dobson. She will break 
fence. I can't keep her in order. 

Dobson. 
An' if tha can't keep thy one cow i' border, 
how can tha keep all thy scholards i' border ? 
But let that goii by. What dost a knaw o' this 



ACT I. THE PROMISE OF MAY. 63 

Mr, Heclgar as be a-lodgin' wi' ye? I coonVcl 
upon 'im t'other daay lookin' at the coontry, then 
a-scrattin upon a bit o' paaper, then a-lookin' 
agean ; and I taaked 'im fur soom sort of a land- 
surveyor — but a beant. 

Wilson. 
He's a Somersetshire man, and a very civil- 
spoken gentleman. 

DOBSON. 

Gentleman ! What be he a-doing here ten 
mile an' moor fro' a raail ? We laays out o' the 
waiiy fur gentlefoalk altogither — leiistwailys they 
niver cooms 'ere but fur the trout i' our beck, fur 
they be knaw'd as far as Littlechester. But 'e 
doant fish neither. 

Wilson. 
Well, it's no sin in a gentleman not to fish. 



64 THE PROMISE OF MA Y. act i. 

DOBSON. 
Noil, but I haates 'im. 

Wilson. 
Better step out of his road, then, for he's walk- 
ing to us, and with a book in his hand. 

DOBSON. 

An' I haiitcs booiiks an' all, fur they puts foiilk 
off the owd waays. 

Enter Edgar, 7-eadiiig—not seeing Dobson 
and Wilson. 

Edgar. 
This author, with his charm of simple style 
And close dialectic, all but proving man 
An automatic series of sensations. 
Has often numb'd me into apathy 



ACT I. THE PROMISE OF MAY. 65 

Against the unpleasant jolts of this rough road 
That breaks off short into the abysses — made 

me 
A Quietist taking all things easily. 

DOBSON. 

(Aside.) There mun be summut wrong theer, 
Wilson, fur I doant understan' it. 

Wilson. 
(Aside.) Nor I either, j\Ir. Dobson. 

DOBSON. 

( ScoriifiiUy.) An' thou doant understan' it 
neither — and thou schoolmaster an' all. 

L^DGAR. 

What can a man, then, live for but sensations, 
Pleasant ones ? men of old would undergo 



66 THE PROMISE OF MA Y. act i. 

Unpleasant for the sake of pleasant ones 
Hereafter, like the INIoslem beauties waiting 
To clasp their lovers by the golden gates. 
For me, whose cheerless Houris after death 
Are Night and Silence, pleasant ones — the while — 
If possible, here ! to crop the flower and pass. 

DOBSON. 

Well, I never 'card the likes o' that afoor. 

Wilson. 

(Aside.) But I have, IVIr. Dobson. It's the 
old Scripture text, " Let us eat and drink, for to- 
morrow we die." I'm sorry for it, for, tho' he 
never comes to church, I thought better of him. 

Edgar. 
"What are we," says the blind old man in Lear? 



ACT I. THE PROMISE OF MA V. 67 

"As flies to the Gods; they kill us for their 
sport." 

DOBSON. 

(Aside.) Then the owd man i' Lear should be 
shaamed of hissen, but noan o' the parishes goas 
by that naame 'ereabouts. 

Edgar. 

The Gods ! but they, the shadows of ourselves, 
Have past forever. It is Nature kills, 
And not for her sport either. She knows nothing. 
Man only knows, the worse for him ! for why 
Cannot /le take his pastime like the flies.'' 
And if my pleasure breed another's pain, 
Well — is not that the course of Nature too, 
From the dim dawn of Being — her main law 
Whereby she grows in beauty — that her flies 
Must massacre each other? this poor Nature! 



68 THE PROMISE OF MA Y. act i. 

DOBSON. 

Natur! Natur! Well, it be i' my natur to 
knock 'im o' the 'ead now; but I weant. 

Edgar. 
A Quietist taking all things easily — why — 
Have I been clipping into this again 
To steel myself against the leaving her? 

(Closes book, scemg Wilson. J 
Good-day 1 

Wilson. 
Good-day, sir. 

(DoBSON /ooks hard at Edgar.) 

Edgar. 
(To DoBSON.J Have I the pleasure, friend, of 
knowing you ? 



ACT I. THE PROMISE OF MA Y. 69 

DOBSON. 
Dobson. 

Edgar. 
Good-day, then, Dobson. \_Exit. 

DORSON. 

"Good-dnay, then, Dobson!" Civil-spoken 
i'deed ! Wh}^, Wilson, iha 'eard 'im thysen — the 
feller couldn't find a IMister in his mouth fur me, 
as farms five hoonderd haacre. 

Wilson. 
You never find one for me, Mr. Dobson. 

Dobson. 

Noa, fur thou be nobbut schoolmaster; but I 
taakes 'im fur a I.unnon swindler, and a burn fool. 



-JO THE PROMISE OF MA Y. act i. 

Wilson. 
He can hardly be both, as he pays me regular 
every Saturday. 

DOBSON. 

Yeas; but I haiites 'im. 

Enter Steer, Farm Men <7;/^ Women. 

Steer. 
(Goes and sits nndcr apple-t7'ee.) Hev' ony o* 
ye seen Eva 1 

DOBSON. 

Noa, Mr. Steer. 

Steer. 

Well, I reckons they'll hev' a fine cider-crop 

to -year if the blossom 'owds. Good - murnin', 

neighbors, and the saame to you, my men. I 

taakes it kindly of all o' you that you be coomed — 



ACT I. THE PROMISE OF MAY. 71 

what's the newspaaper word, Wilson? — celebrate — 
to celebrate my birthdaay i' this fashion. Niver 
man 'ed better friends, and I will saay niver master 
'ed better men : fur thaw I may ha' fallen out wi' 
ye sometimes, the fault, mebbe, wur as much mine 
as yours; and, thaw I says it mysen, niver men 'ed 
a better master — and I knaws what men be, and 
what masters be, fur I wair nobbut a laaborer, and 
now I be a landlord — burn a ploughman, and now, 
as far as money goas, I be a gentleman, thaw I 
beant naw scholard,fur I 'ednt naw time to maake 
mysen a scholard while I wur maakin' mysen a 
gentleman, but I ha taaen good care to turn out 
boath my darters right down fine laadies. 

DOBSON. 

An' soa they be. 

1ST Farming Man. 
Soa they be ! soa they be ! 



72 THE PROMISE OF MA V. act i. 

2D Farming Man. 
The Lord bless boath on 'em ! 

3D Farming Man. 
An' the saame to yon, Master. 

4TH Farming Man. 
And long life to boath on 'em. An' the saame 
to you, Master Steer, likewise. 

Steer. 
Thank ye ! 

£nfiy Eva. 
Wheer 'asta been ? 

Eva. 

(Timidly.) Many happy returns of the day, 
father. 

Steer. 
They can't be many, my dear, but I 'oapes 
they'll be 'appy. 



ACT I. THE PROMISE OF MAY. 73 

DOBSON. 

Wh3', tha looks haale anew to last to a hoon- 
derd. 

Steer. 
An' why shouldn't I last to a hoonderd ? Haale ! 
why shouldn't I be haale? fur thaw I be heighty 
this very daay, I niver 'es sa much as one pin's 
prick of paain ; an' I can taake my glass along wi' 
the youngest, fur I niver touched a drop of owt 
till my oan wedding-daa)-, an' then I wur turned 
iHippads o' sixty. Why shouldn't I be haale.? 
I ha' plowed the ten-aacre-it be mine now-afoor 
ony o' ye wur burn-ye all knaws the ten-aacre- 
I mun ha' ploughed it moor nor a hoonderd times ; 
hallus hup at sunrise, and I'd drive the plough straait 
as a line right i' the faace o' the sun, then back 
agean, a-follering my oan shadder-then hup agean 
i' the fliace o' the sun. Eh ! how the sun 'ud 
shine, and the larks 'ud sing i' them daays, and 



74 



THE PROMISE OF MA Y. ACT i. 



the smell o' the mou'd an' all. Eh ! if I could ha' 
gone on \vi' the ploughin' nobbut the smell o' the 
mou'd 'ud ha' maade ma live as long as Jerusalem. 

Eva. 

Methusaleh, father. 

Steer. 
Ay, lass, but when thou be as owd as me 
thou'll put one word fur another as I does. 

DOBSON. 

But, Steer, thaw thou be haale anew I seed tha 
a-limpin' up just now wi' the roomatics i' the knee. 

Steer. 
Roomatics ! Noa ; I laame't my knee last 
night running arter a thief. Beant there house- 
breakers down i' Litllechester, Dobson — doant 
ye hear of ony ? 



ACT I. THE PROMISE OF MAY. 



75 



DOBSON. 

Ay, that there be. Immaiuiel Goldsmith's was 
broke into o' Monday night, and ower a hoonderd 
pounds worth o' rings stolen. 

Steer. 

So I thowt, and I heard the winder — that's the 

winder at the end o' the passage, that goas by thy 

chaumber. (Turning io Eva.) Why, lass, what 

maakes tha sa red ? Did 'e git into thy chaumber? 



Eva. 

Father ! 



Steer. 
Well, I runned arter thief i' the dark, and fell 
agean coalscuttle and my kneea gev waay, or I'd 
ha' cotched 'im, but afoor I coomed up he got 
thruff the winder a^^ean. 



76 THE PROMISE OF MAY, act 



Eva. 



Got thro' the window again? 



Steer. 



Ay, but he left the mark of 'is foot i' the flower- 
bed ; now theer be nojin o' my men, thinks I to 
mysen, 'ud ha' done it 'cep' it were Dan Smith, fur 
I cotched 'im once a-steiilin' coiils, an' I sent fur 
'im, an' I measured his foot wi' the mark i' the 
bed, but it wouldn't fit — seeams to me the mark 
wur maiide by a Lunnun boot. (Looks at Ei^a.) 
Why, now, what maakes tha sa white? 

Eva. 

Fright, father ! 

Steer. 
Maake thysen easy. I'll hev the winder naailed 
up, and put Towser under it. 



ACT I. THE PROMISE OF MAY. 77 



Eva. 

(Clasping her hands.) No, no, father ! Tow- 
ser'll tear him all to pieces. 

Steer. 
Let him keep awaay then; but coom, coom ! 
let's be gawin. They ha' broached a barrel of 
aale i' the long barn, and the fiddler be theer, and 
the lads and lasses 'till hev a dance. 

Eva. 
(Aside.) Dance ! small heart have I to d 
I should seem to be dancing upon a grave. 



ance. 



Steer. 
Wheer be Mr. Edgar.? about the premises.? 

DOBSON. 

Hallus about the premises ! 



78 THE PROMISE OF MAY. 

Steer. 
So much the better, so much the better. I 
likes 'im, and Eva likes 'im. Eva can do owt 
\vi' 'im ; look for 'im, Eva, and bring 'im to the 
barn. He 'ant naw pride in 'im, and we'll git 
'im to speechify for us arter dinner. 



Eva. 

Yes, father ! " \^Exit. 



Steer. 
Coom along, then, all the rest o' ye ! Church- 
warden be a coomin, thaw me and 'im we niver 
'grees about the tithe ; and Parson mebbe, thaw 
he niver mended that gap i' the glebe fence as I 
telled 'im ; and Blacksmith, thaw he niver shoes 
a herse to my likings ; and Baaker, thaw I sticks 
to hoammaade — but all on 'em welcome, all on 
'em welcome ; and I've hed the long barn cleared 



ACT I. THE PROMISE OF MAY. 79 

out of all the machines, and the sacks, and the 
taatei-s, and the mangles, and theer'll be room 
anew for all o' ye. Foller me. 



All. 
Yeas, yeas ! Three cheers for Mr. Steer ! 

\^All exeunt except Dobson into barn. 

Enter Edgar. 

Dobson (wJw is goings turns.) 
Squire !— if so be you be a squire. 

Edgar. 
Dobbins, I think. 

Dobson. 
Dobbins, you thinks; and I thinks ye wears a 
Lunnun boot. 



8o THE PROMISE OF MAY. act i. 

Edgar. 
Well ? 

DOBSON. 

And I thinks I'd like to taake the measure o' 
your foot. 

Edgar. 

Ay, if you'd like to measure your own length 
upon the grass. 

DOBSON. 

Coom, coom, that's a good un. Why, I could 
throw four o' ye ; but I promised one of the Misses 
I wouldn't meddle wi' ye, and I weant. 

YExit into ham. 
Edgar. 
Jealous of me with Eva ! Is it so ? 
Well, tho' I grudge the pretty jewel, that I 
Have worn, to such a clod, yet that might be 
The best way out of it, if the child could keep 
Her counsel. I am sure I wish her happy. 



ACT I. THE PROMISE OF MAY. 8i 

But I must free myself from this entanglement. 
I have all my life before me — so has she — 
Give her a month or two, and her affections 
Will flower toward the light in some new face. 
Still I am half afraid to meet her now. 
She will urge marriage on me. I hate tears. 
Marriage is but an old tradition. I hate 
Traditions, ever since my narrow father, 
After my frolic with his tenant's girl, 
Made younger elder son, violated the whole 
Tradition of our land, and left his heir, 
Born, happily, with some sense of art, to live 
By brush and pencil. By and by, when Thought 
Comes down among the crowd, and man perceives 

that 
The lost gleam of an after-life but leaves him 
A beast of prey in the dark, why then the crowd 
May wreak my wrongs upon my wrongers. Mar- 
riage ! 



82 THE PROMISE OF MAY. act i. 

That fine, fat, hook-nosed uncle of mine, old 

Harold, 
Who leaves me all his land at Littlechester, 
He, too, would oust me from his will, if I 
Made such a marriage. And marriage in it- 
self— 
The storm is hard at hand will sweep away 
Thrones, churches, ranks, traditions, customs, mar- 
riage, 
One of the feeblest! Then the man, the woman. 
Following their best affinities, will each 
Bid their old bond farewell with smiles, not tears; 
Good wishes, not reproaches ; with no fear 
Of the world's gossiping clamour, and no need 
Of veiling their desires. 

Conventionalism, 
Who shrieks by day at what she does by night, 
Would call this vice ; but one time's vice may 
be 



ACT I. THE PROMISE OF MA Y. 33 

The virtue of another ; and Vice and Virtue 
Are but two masks of self; and what hereafter 
Shall mark out Vice from Virtue in the gulf 
Of never-dawning darkness? 

Enter Eva. 

My sweet Eva, 
Where have you lain in ambush all the morn- 
ing? 
They say your sister, Dora, has return 'd, 
And that should make you happy, if you love her! 
But you look troubled. 

Eva, 

Oh, I love her so, 
I was afraid of her, and I hid myself. 
We never kept a secret from each other; 
She would have seen at once into my trouble, 
And ask'd me what I could not answer. Oh, Philip, 



84 THE PROMISE OF MAY. act r. 

Father heard you last night. Our savage mas- 
tiff, 
That all but kill'd the beggar, will be placed 
Beneath the window, Philip. 



Edgar. 



Savage, is he ? 



What matters? Come, give me your hand and 

kiss me 
This beautiful May- morning. 



Eva. 

The most beautiful 

May we have had for many years ! 



Edgar. 

And here 

Is the most beautiful morning of this May. 

Nay, you must smile upon me! There — you 

make 



ACT I. THE PROMISE OF MA Y. 85 

The May and morning still more beautiful, 
You, the most beautiful blossom of the May. 

Eva. 
Dear Philip, all the world is beautiful 
If we were happy, and could chime in with it. 

Edgar. 
True ; for the senses, love, are for the world ; 
That for the senses. 

Eva. 
Yes. 

Edgar. 

And \yhen the man, 
The child of evolution, flings aside 
His swaddling-bands, the morals of the tribe, 
He, following his own instincts as his God, 



86 THE PROMISE OF MAY. act i. 

Will enter on the larger golden age ; 

No pleasure then taboo'd : for when the tide 

Of full democracy has overwhelm'd 

This Old world, from that flood will rise the New, 

Like the Love-goddess with no bridal veil, 

Ring, trinket of the Church, but naked Nature 

In all her loveliness. 

Eva. 

What are you saying? 

Edgar. 
That, if we did not strain to make ourselves 
Better and higher than Nature, we might be 
As happy as the bees there at their honey 
In these sweet blossoms. 

Eva. 
Yes; how sweet they smell ! 



ACT I. THE PROMISE OF MA Y. 87 

Edgar. 
There ! let me break some off for you. 

YBreaJdiig branch ojf. 

Eva. 

My thanks. 

But, look, how wasteful of the blossom you are ! 
One, two, three, four, five, six — you have robb'd 

poor father 
Of ten good apples. Oh, I forgot to tell you 
He wishes you to dine along with us, 
And speak for him after — you that are so clever! 

Edgar. 
I grieve I cannot ; but, indeed — 

Eva. 

What is it ? 



88 THE PROMISE OF MA Y. act i. 

Edgar. 
Well, business. I must leave you, love, to-day. 

Eva. 
Leave me, to-day ! And when will you return 1 

Edgar. 
I cannot tell precisely; but — 

Eva. 

But what ? 

Edgar. 

« 

I trust, my dear, we shall be always friends. 

Eva. 

After all that has gone between us — friends ! 
What, only friends ? [^Drops branch. 



ACT I. THE PROMISE OF MAY. 89 

Edgar. 

All that has gone between us 
Should surely make us friends. 

Eva. 

But keep us lovers. 

Edgar. 
Child, do you love me now? 

Eva. 

Yes, now and ever. 

Edgar. 
Then you should wish us both to love forever. 
But, if you will hmd love to one forever, 
Altho' at first he take his bonds for flowers, 
As years go on he feels them press upon him, 
Begins to flutter in them, and at last 



90 THE PROMISE OF MA V. act 

Breaks thro' them, and so flies away forever; 
"While, had you left him free use of his wings, 
Who knows that he had ever dream'd of flvinii? 



Eva. 

But all that sounds so wicked and so strange ; 
'•Till death us part" — those are the only words, 
The true ones — nay, and those not true enough. 
For they that love do not believe that death 
Will part them. Why do you jest with me, and 

try 
To fright me? Tho' you are a gentleman, 
I but a fiirmer's daughter — 

Edgar. 

Tut ! you talk 
Old feudalism. When the great Democracy 
Makes a new world — 



ACT I. THE PROMISE OF MA V. 91 

Eva. 

And if you be not jesting, 
Neither the old world, nor the new, nor father, 
Sister, nor you, shall ever see me more. 

Edgar (moved). 
Then — (aside) Shall I say \0. — (aloud) fly with 
me to-day. 

Eva. 

No! Philip, Philip, if you do not marry me, 
I sliall go mad for utter shame and die. 

Edgar. 

Then, if we needs must be conventional. 
When shall your parish-parson bawl our banns 
Before your gaping clowns? 

Eva. 

Not in our church — - 



92 THE PROMISE OF MA V. act i. 

I think I scarce could hold my head up there. 
Is there no other way? 

Edgar. 

Yes, if you cared 
To fee an over-opulent superstition, 
Then they would grant you what they call a license 
To marry. Do you wish it ? 

Eva. 

1^0 I wish it? 

Edgar. 
In London. 

Eva. 

You will write to me ? 

Edgar. 

I will. 



THE PROMISE OF MA Y. 



93 



Eva. 

And I will fly to you thro' the night, the storm — 
Yes, tho' the fire should run along the ground, 
As once it did in Egypt. Oh, you see, 
I was just out of school, I had no mother — 
My sister far away — and you, a gentleman, 
Told me to trust you : yes, in everything — 
That was the only true love ; and I trusted — 
Oh, yes, indeed, I w^ould have died for you. 
How could you — oh, how could you ? — nay, how 

could I } 
But now you will set all right again, and I 
Shall not be made the laughter of the village, 
And poor old father not die miserable. 

Dora (singing tn the distance). 

"Oh, joy for the promise of May, of May, 
Oh, joy for the promise of May." 



94 THE PROMISE OF MA Y. act i. 

Edgar. 

Speak not so loudly ; that must be your sister. 
You never told her, then, of what has past 
Between us. 

Eva. 

Never ! 

Edgar. 

Do not till I bid you. 

Eva. 

No, Philip, no. \Turns aivay. 

Edgar (iiiovcd). 

How gracefully there she stands 
Weeping — the little Niobe ! \Vhat ! we prize 
The statue or the picture all the more 



ACT I. THE PROMISE OF MAY. 95 

When we have made them ours ! Is she less 

lovable, 
Less lovely, being wholly mine? To stay — 
Follow my art among these quiet fields, 
Live with these honest folk — 

And play the fool ! 
No! she that gave herself to me so easily 
Will yield herself as easily to another. 

Eva. 

Did you speak, Philip.^ 

Edgar. 

Nothing more, farewell. 

[ They embrace. 

Dora (coming nearer). 
"Oh, grief for the promise of May, of May, 
Oh, grief for the promise of May." 



96 THE PROMISE OF MA K act i. 

Edgar (still embracing her). 
Keep up your heart until we meet again. 

Eva. 
If that should break before we meet again ? 

Edgar. 
Break ! nay, but call for Philip when you will, 
And he returns. 

Eva. 
Heaven hears you, Philip Edgar! 

Edgar (moved). 
And he would hear you even from the grave. 
Heaven curse him if he come not at your call! 

{Exit 

Enter Dora. 

Dora. 
Well, Eva ! 



ACT I. THE PROMISE OF MA Y. 



97 



Eva. 
Oh, Dora, Dora, how long you have been away 
from home ! Oh, how often I have wished for you. 
It seemed to me that we were parted forever. 

Dora. 
Forever, you foolish child ! What's come over 
you ? We parted like the brook yonder about the 
alder island, to come together again in a moment 
and to go on together again, till one of us be 
married. But where is this Mr. Edgar whom you 
praised so in your first letters ? You haven't even 
mentioned him in your last? 

Eva. 

He has gone to London. 

Dora. 
Ay, child ; and you look thin and pale. Is it 
for his absence 1 Have you fancied yourself in 



98 THE PROMISE OF MA V. act i. 

love with him ? That's all nonsense, you know, 
such a baby as you are. But you shall tell me all 
about it. 

Eva. 

Not now — presently. Yes, I have been in trou- 
ble, but I am happy — I think, quite happy now. 

Dora (taJung Eva's hand). 
Come, then, and make them happy in the long 
barn, for father is in his glory, and there is a piece 
of beef like a house-side, and a plum-pudding as 
big as the round haystack. But see, they are com- 
ing out for the dance already. Well, my child, let 
us join them. 

Enter all from ham laughing. Eva sifs reluctantly 
Wilder apple-tree. Steer enters smoking^ sits 
by Eva. 

Dance. 



ACT IT. 

Five years have elapsed between Acts I. and II. 

Scene. — A meadow. On one side a pathway going 
over a rustic bridge. At back the farjuJiouse 
a7nong trees. In the distance a church spire. 

DoBSON and Dora. 

DOBSON. 

So the owd uncle i' Cooniberland be dead, Miss 
Dora, beant he ? 

Dora. 



Yes, Mr. Dobson, I've been attending on bis 
death-bed and his burial. 



100 THE PROMISE OF MAY. act ii. 

DOBSON. 

It be five year sin' ye went afoor to him, and it 

seems to me nobbut t'other clay. Hesn't he left 

ye nowt ? 

Dora. 

No, Mr. Dobson. 

DOBSON. 

But he were mighty fond o' ye, warn't he? 

Dora. 
Fonder of poor Eva — like everybody else. 

Dobson (handing Dora basket of ivses). 
Not like me, Miss Dora; and I ha' browt these 
roses to ye — I forgits what they calls 'em, but I 
hallus gi'ed soom on 'em to Miss Eva at this time 
o' year. Will ya taake 'em ? fur Miss Eva, she 
set the bush by my dairy winder afoor she went to 
school at Liltlecliester — so I alius browt soom on 



ACT ir. THE PROMISE OF MAY. loi 

'em to her; and now she be gone, will ye taake 
'em, Miss Dora? 

Dora. 

I thank you. They tell me that yesterday you 
mentioned her name too suddenly before my 
father. See that you do not do so again ! 

DOBSON. 

Noa ; I knaws a deal better now. I seed how 
the owd man wur vext. 

Dora. 

I take them, then, for Eva's sake. 

\Take5 basket, places some in her dress. 

DOBSON. 

Eva's saake. Yeas. Poor gel, poor gel ! I 
can't abear to think on 'er now, fur I'd ha' done 
owt fur 'er mysen ; an' ony o' Steer's men, an' ony 



102 THE PROMISE OF MAY. act ir. 

o' my men 'ud ha' done owt fur 'er, an' all the 
parish 'ud ha' done owt fur 'er, fur we was all on 
us proud on 'er, an' them theer be soom of her 
oan roses, an' she wur as sweet as ony on 'em — 
the Lord bless 'er — 'er oan sen ; an' weant ye 
taake 'em now, Miss Dora, fur 'er saake an' fur 
my saake an' all? 

Dora. 

Do you want them back again ? 

DOBSON. 

Noa, noa ! Keep 'em. But I hed a word to 
saay to ye. 

Dora. 

Why, Farmer, you should be in the hayfield 
looking after your men ; you couldn't have more 
splendid weather. 

Dobson. 

I be a-going theer ; but I thowt I'd biing tha 



ACT ir. THE PROMISE OF MA V. 103 

them roses fust. The weather's well anew, but the 
glass be a bit shaaky. S'iver we've led moast on it. 

Dora. 

Ay ! but you must not be too sudden with it 
either, as you were last year, when you put it in 
green, and your stack caught fire. 

DOBSON. 

I were insured, Miss, an' I lost nowt by it. 
But I weant be too sudden wi' it; and I feel 
sewer. Miss Dora, that I ha' been noan too sudden 
wi' you, fur I ha' sarved for ye well-nigh as long 
as the man sarved for 'is sweet'art i' Scriptur'. 
Weant ye gi'e me a kind answer at last? 

Dora. 
I have no thought of marriage, my friend. We 
have been in such grief these five years, not only 



104 THE PROMISE OF MAY. act ii. 

on my sister's account, but the ill success of the 
farm, and the debts, and my father's breaking 
down, and his blindness. How could I think of 
leaving him ? 

DOBSON. 

Eh, but I be well to do ; and if ye would nobbut 
hev me, I would taake the owd blind man to my 
oan fireside. You should hev him alius wi' ye. 

Dora. 

You are generous, but it cannot be. I cannot 
love you ; nay, I think I never can be brought to 
love any man. It seems to me that I hate men, 
ever since my sister left us. Oh, see here. (Pulls 
out a letter.) I wear it next my heart. Poor sister, 
I had it five years ago. " Dearest Dora, — I have 
lost myself, and am lost forever to you and my 
poor father. I thought Mr. Edgar the best of men. 



ACT II. THE PROMISE OF MA V. 105 

and he has proved himself the worst. Seek not 
for me, or you may find me at the bottom of the 
river. — Eva." 

DOBSON. 

Be that my fault ? 

Dora. 

No ; but how should I, with this grief still at 
my heart, take to the milking of your cows, the 
fatting of your calves, the making of your butter, 
and the managing of your poultry.? 

DOBSON. 

Naay, but I hev an owd woman as 'ud see to all 
that; and you should sit i' your oan parlor quixe 
like a laady, ye should ! 

Dora. 
It cannot be. 



io6 THE PROMISE OF MAY. act ir. 

DOBSON. 

And plaay the planner, if ye liked, all daay 
long, like a laady, ye should an' all. 

Dora. 
It cannot be. 

DOBSON. 

And I would loove tha moor nor ony gentleman 
'ud loove tha. 

Dora, 

No, no ; it cannot be. 

DoBSON. 

And p'raps ye hears 'at I soomtimes taiikes a 
drop too much ; but that be all along o' you, 
Miss, because ye weant hev me \ but, if ye would, 
I could put all that o' one side easy anew. 



ACT II. THE PROMISE OF MAY. 107 

Dora. 

Cannot you understand plain words, Mr. Dob- 
son? I tell you, it cannot be. 

DOBSON. 

Eh, lass ! Thy feyther eddicated his darters to 
marry gentlefoalk, and see what's coomed on it. 

Dora. 

That is enough, Farmer Dobson. You have 
shown me that, though fortune had born you into 
the estate of a gentleman, you would still have 
been Farmer Dobson. You had better attend to 
your hayfield. Good-afternoon. \^Exit. 

Dobson. 

" Farmer Dobson " 1 Well, I be Farmer Dob- 
son ; but I thinks Farmer Dobson's dog 'ud ha' 



io8 THE PROMISE OF MA Y. act ii. 

knaw'd better nor to cast her sister's misfortin inter 
'er teeth arter she'd been a-readin' me the letter vvi' 
'er voice a-shaakin', and the drop in 'er eye. Theer 
she goas ! Shall I foller 'er and ax 'er to maake it 
up? Noa, not yet. Let 'er cool upon it ; I likes 
'er all the better fur taakin' me down, like a laady, 
as she be. Farmer Dobson ! I be Farmer Dobson, 
sewer anew ; but if iver I cooms upo' Gentleman 
Hedgar agean, and doant laay my cartwhip athurt 
'is shou'ders, why then I beant Farmer Dobson, 
but summun else — blaame't if I beant 1 

Enter Haymakers with a load of hay. 
The last on it, eh ? 

1ST Haymaker. 
Yeas. 

Dobson. 
Hoam wi' it, then. \Exit surlily. 



ACT ir. THE rROMISE OF MAY. 109 

1ST Haymaker. 
Well, it be the last load hoam. 

2D Haymaker. 

Yeas, an' owd Dobson should be glad on it. 
What niaiikcs 'ini alius sa glum ? 

Sally Allen. 

Glum ! he be wus nor glum. He coom'd up to 
me yisteidaay i' the haayfield, when mea and my 
sweet'art was a workin' along o' one side wi' one 
another, and he sent 'im awaay to t'other end o' 
the field ; and when I axed 'im why, he telled me 
'at sweet'arts niver worked well togither; and I 
telled 'im 'at sweet'arts alius worked best togither ; 
and then he called me a rude naame, and I can't 
abide 'im. 



no THE PROMISE OF MAY. act ii. 

James. 

Why, lass, doiint tha knaw he be sweet upo' 
Dora Steer, and she weant sa much as look at 'im ? 
And wheniver 'e sees two sweet'arts togither like 
thou and me, Sally, he be fit to bust hissen wi' 
spites and jalousies. 

Sally. 
Let 'im bust hissen, then, for owt /cares. 

1ST Haymaker. 

Well but, as I said afoor, it be the last load 
hoam ; do thou and thy sweet'art sing us hoam to 
supper — "The Last Load Hoam." 

All. 
Ay! "The Last Load Hoam." 



ACT II. THE PROMISE OF MAY. in 

Song. 

What did ye do, and what did ye saay, 

Wi' the wild white rose, and the woodbine sa 

gaay, 
An' the midders all mow'd, and the sky sa blue — 
What did ye saay, and v;hat did ye do, 
When ye thowt there were nawbody watchin' o' 

you, 
And you and your Sally was forkin' the haay, 

At the end of the daay, 

For the last load hoam ? 

What did we do, and what did we saay, 
Wi' the briar sa green, and the wilier sa graay, 
An' the midders all mow'd, and the sky sa blue — • 
Do ye think I be gawin' to tell it to you, 
What we mowt saay, and what we mowt do, 
When me and my Sally was forkin' the haay, 



112 THE PROMISE OF MAY. act ir. 

At the end of the daii}', 
For the last load hoam ? 

But what did ye saay, and what did ye do, 
\Vi' the butterflies out, and the swallers at plaay, 
An' the midders all mow'd, and the sky sa blue ? 
Why, coom then, owd feller, I'll tell it to you ? 
For me and my Sally we swear'd to be true, 
To be true to each other, let 'appen what maa\', 

Till the end of the daay 

And the last load hoam. 



All. 
Well sung! 

James. 

Fanny be the naame 'i the song, but I swopt it 
fur she. {^Pointing fo Sally. 



ACT 11. THE PROMISE OF MAY, 113 

Sally. 
Let ma aloaii afoor foalk, wilt tha? 

1ST Haymaker. 

Ye shall sing that agean to-night, fur owd Dob- 
son '11 gi'e us a bit q' supper. 

Sally. 
I weiint goa to owd Dobson ; he wur rude to 
me i' tha haayfield, and he'll be rude to me agean 
to-night. Owd Steer's gotten all his grass down 
and wants a hand, and I'll goa to him. 

1ST Haymaker. 



Owd Steer gi'cs nubbut cowd tea to ''is men 
and owd Dobson gi'es beer. 



114 THE PROMISE OF MAY. act ir. 

Sally. 
But I'd like owcl Steer's cowcl tea better nor 
Dobson's beer. Good-bye. \Going. 

James. 
Gl'e us a buss fust, lass. 

Sally. 
I teird tha to let ma aloan ! 

James. 

Why, wasn't thou and me a-bussin' o' one 

another t'other side o' the haaycock, when owd 

Dobson coom'd upo' us? I can't let thaa loan if 

I would, Sally. {Offering to kiss Jicr. 

Sally. 
Git along wi' ye, do ! {Exit. 

{All laugh ; exeunt singing. 



ACT ir. THE PROMISE OF MAY. 115 

" To be true to each other, let 'appen what maay, 
Till the end o' the daay 
An' the last load hoam." 



Enter PIarold. 

Harold. 

Not Harold ! " Philip Edgar, Philip Edgar !" 
Her phantom calFd me by the name she loved. 
I told her I should hear her from the grave. 
Ay ! yonder is her casement. I remember 
Her bright face beaming starlike down upon me 
Thro' that rich cloud of blossom. Since I left her 
Here weeping, I have ranged the world, and sat 
Thro' every sensual course of that full feast 
That leaves but emptiness. 



Ii6 THE PROMISE OF MAY. act ii. 

Song. 
"To be true to each other, let'appen what maay, 
To the end 'o the daay 
An' the last load hoam." 



Harold. 

Poor Eva ! Oh, my God, if man be only 

A willy-nilly current of sensations — 

Reaction needs must follow revel — yet — 

Why feel remorse, he, knowing that he must have 

Moved in the iron grooves of Destiny? 

Remorse, then, is a part of Destiny, 

Nature a liar, making us feel guilty 

Of her own faults. 

My grandfather — of him 
They say, that women — 

Oh, this mortal house, 



ACT II. THE PROMISE OF MAY. 117 

Whicli \vc are born into, is haunted by 
The ghosts of the dead passions of dead men; 
And these take flesh again with our own flesh, 
And bring us to confusion. 

He was only 
A poor philosopher who call'd the mind 
Of children a blank page, a tabula rasa. 
There, there, is written in invisible inks 
"Lust, Prodigality, Covetousness, Craft, 
Cowardice, Murder" — and the heat and fire 
Of life will bring them out, and black enough, 
So the child grow to manhood : better death 
With our first wail than life — 



Song (further' off), 

"Till the end o' the daay 
An' the last load hoam, 
Load hoam." 



ii8 THE PROMISE OF MAY, act ii. 

This bridge again ! (Steps on the bridge.) 

How often have I stood 
With Eva here ! The brook among its flowers ! 
Forget-me-not, meadowsweet, willow-herb. 
I had some smattering of science then, 
Taught her the learned names, anatomized 
The flowers for her — and now I only wish 
This pool were deep enough, that I might plunge 
And lose myself forever. 

Enter Dan Smith (singing). 

Gee oop ! whoa ! Gee oop ! whoa ! 
Scizzars an' Pumpy was good uns to goa 
Thruf slush an' squad 
When roads was bad, 
But hallus ud stop at the Vine-an'-the-Hop, 
Fur boath on 'em knaw'd as well as mysen 
That beer be as good fur 'erses as men. 



ACT II. THE PROMISE OF MAY. 119 

Gee oop ! whoa! Gee oop! whoa ! 
Scizzars an' Pumpy was good uns to goa. 

The beer's gotten oop into my 'each S'iver I 
mun git along back to the farm, fur she tell'd ma 
to taake the cart to Littlechester. 

Enter Dora. 

Half an hour late ! why are you loitering here ? 
Away with you at once. \Exit Dan Smith. 

(Seeing Harold on bridge.) 

Some madman, is it, 
Gesticulating there upon the bridge ? 
I am halif afraid to pass. 

Harold. 

Sometimes I wonder, 
When man has surely learnt at last that all 



120 THE PROMISE OF MAY. act ii. 

His old-world fiiith, the blossom of his youth, 

Has faded, fcilling fruitless — whether then 

All of us, all at once, may not be seized 

With some fierce passion, not so much for Death 

As against Life ! all, all, into the dark — 

No more ! — and science now could drug and 

balm us 
Back into nescience with as little pain 
As it is to fall asleep. 

This beggarly life, 
This poor, flat, hedged-in field—no distance— 

this 
Hollow Pandora-box, 
With all the pleasures flown, not even Hope 

Left at the bottom I 

Superstitious fool, 
What brought me here ? To see her grave ? her 

ghost ? 
Her ghost is everyway about me here. 



ACT II. THE PROMISE OF MAY. 121 

Dora (coming forivai'd). 
Allow me, sir, to pass you. 

Harold. 

Eva! 

Dora. 

Eva! 

Harold. 
What are you ? AVhere do you come from ? 

Dora. 

From the farm 

Here, close at hand. 

Harold. 
Are you — you are — that Dora, 
The sister. I have heard of you. The likeness 
Is very striking. 



122 THE PROMISE OF MA V. act ii, 

Dora. 
You knew Eva, then ? 

Harold. 
Yes — I was thinking of her when — Oh, yes, 
Many years back, and never since have met 
Her equal for pure innocence of nature, 
And lovehness of feature. 

Dora. 

No, nor I. 

Harold. 
Except, indeed, I have found it once again 
In your own self. 

Dora. 
You flatter me. Dear Eva 
Was always thought the prettier. 



ACT II. THE PROMISE OF MAY. 123 

Harold. 

And her charm 
Of voice is also yours ; and I was brooding 
Upon a great unhappiness when you spoke. 

Dora. 
Indeed, you seem'd in trouble, sir. 

Harold. 

And you 
Seem my good angel who may help me from it. 

Dora (aside). 

How worn he looks, poor man ! who is it, I wonder. 
How can I help him? (Aloud.) Might I ask your 
name ? 

Harold. 
Harold. 



124 THE PROMISE OF MA Y. act il 

Dora. 
I never heard her mention you. 

Harold. 
I met her first at a farm in Cumberland — 
Her uncle's. 

Dora. 
She was there six years ago. 

Harold. 

And if she never mention'd me, perhaps 
The painful circumstances which I heard — 
I will not vex you by repeating them — 
Only last week at Littlechester, drove me 
From out her memory. She has disappear'd, 
They told me, from the farm — and darker news. 



ACT II. THE PROMISE OF MA V. 125 

Dora. 

She has disappeared, poor darling, from the 

world — 
Left but one dreadful line to say, that we 
Should find her in the river; and we dragg'd 
The Littlechester river all in vain : 
Have sorrow'd for her all these years in vain. 
And my poor father, utterly broken down 
By losing her — she was his favorite child — 
Has let his farm, all his affairs, I fear. 
But for the slender help that I can give. 
Fall into ruin. Ah ! that villain, Edgar, 
If he should ever show his face among us. 
Our men and boys would hoot him, stone him, 

hunt him 
With pitchforks off the farm, for all of them 
Loved her, and she was worthy of all love. 



126 THE PROMISE OF MA V. act ii. 

Harold. 
They say, we should forgive our enemies. 

Dora. 
Ay, if the wretch were dead I might forgive him ; 
We know not whether he be dead or living. 



What Edgar? 



Harold. 



Dora. 



Philip Edgar of Toft Hall 
In Somerset. Perhaps you know him ? 

Harold. 

Slightly. 

(Aside.) Ay, for how slightly have I known myself. 
Dora. 



This Edgar, then, is living? 



ACT II. THE PROMISE OF MAY. 127 

Harold. 

Living.? well — 
One Philip Edgar of Toft Hall in Somerset 
Is lately dead. 

Dora. 
Dead ! — is there more than one? 

Harold. 
Nay — now — not one, (aside) for I am Philip 
Harold. 

Dora. 
That one, is he then — dead ! 

Harold. 

(Aside.) My father's death, 
Let her believe it mine ; this, for the moment, 
Will leave me a free field. 



128 THE PROMISE OF MA V. act i 

Dora. 

Dead ! and this world 
Is brighter for his absence as that other 
Is darker for his presence. 

Harold. 

Is not this 
To speak too pitilessly of the dead ^ 



Dora. 

My five-years' anger cannot die at once, 
Not all at once with death and him. I trust 
I shall forgive him — by and by — not now. 
Oh, sir, you seem to have a heart; if you 
Had seen us that wild morning when we found 
Her bed unslept in, storm and shower lashing 
Her casement, her poor spaniel wailing for her. 



ACT II. THE PROMISE OF MA V. 129 

That desolate letter, blotted with her tears, 
AVhich told us we should never see her more — 
Our old nurse crying as if for her own child, 
My father stricken with his first paralysis, 
And then with blindness — had you been one of 

us 
And seen all this, then you would know it is not 
So easy to forgive — even the dead. 



Harold. 

But sure am I that of your gentleness 

You will forgive him. She, you mourn for, seem'd 

A miracle of gentleness — would not blur 

A moth's wing by the touching; would not crush 

The fly that drew her blood ; and, were she living, 

AVould not — if penitent — have denied him /ler 

Forgiveness. And perhaps the man himself. 

When hearing of that piteous death, has suffer'd 



I30 THE PROMISE OF MA Y. act ii. 

More than we know. But wherefore waste your 

heart 
In looking on a chill and changeless Past? 
Iron will fuse, and marble melt; the Past 
Remains the Past. But you are young, and— 

pardon me — 
As lovely as your sister. Who can tell 
What golden hours, with what full hands, may 

be 
Waitins: vou in the distance? Mis^ht I call 
Upon your father — I have seen the world — 
And cheer his blindness with a traveller's tales? 



Dora. 

Call if you will, and when you will. I cannot 
Well answer for my father ; but if you 
Can tell me anything of our sweet Eva 
When in her brighter girlhood, I at least 



ACTir. THE PROMISE OF MAY. 131 



Will bid you welcome, and will listen to you. 
Now I must go. 



Harold. 

But give me first your hand : 
I do not dare, like an old friend, to shake it. 
I kiss it as a prelude to that privilege 
When you shall know me better. 

Dora. 

(Aside,) How beautiful 
His manners are, and how unlike the farmer's ! 
You are staying here t 

Harold. 

Yes, at the wayside inn 
Close by that alder-island in your brook, 
"The Ander's Home." 



132 THE PROMISE OF MA Y. act ii. 

Dora. 

Are you one ? 

Harold. 

No, but I 

Take some delight in sketching, and the country 
Has many charms, altho' the inhabitants 
Seem semi-barbarous. 

Dora. 

I am glad it pleases you ; 
Yet I, born here, not only love the country, 
But its inhabitants too; and you, I doubt not, 
Would take to them as kindly, if you cared 
To live some time among Ihem. 

Harold. 

If I did. 

Then one at least of its inhabitants 
Might have more charm for me than all the coun- 
try. 



ACT IL THE PROMISE OF MAY. 133 

Dora. 
That one, then, should be grateful for your pref- 
erence. 

Harold. 
I cannot tell, tho' standing in her presence. 
(Aside.) She colors ! 

Dora. 
Sir ! 

Harold. 

Be not afraid of me, 
For these are no conventional flourishes. 
I do most earnestly assure you that 
Your likeness — \ Shouts and cries ivithout. 

Dora. 
What was that? my poor blind father — 



134 THE PROMISE OF MA V. act it. 

Enter Farming Man. 

Farming Man. 
Miss Dora, Dan Smith's cart lies runned ower 
a laady i' the holler laane, and they ha' ta'en the 
body up inter your chaumber, and they be all a- 
callin' for ye. 

Dora. 
The body ! — Heavens ! I come ! 

Harold. 

But you are trembling. 
Allow me to go with you to the farm. S^Examt. 

Enter Dobson. 

DOBSON. 

What feller wur it as 'a' been a-talkin' fur 
haafe an hour wi' my Dora ? (Looking after 



ACT II. THE PROMISE OF MAY. i35 

him.) Seecims I ommost knaws the back on 
'ini — di-cst like a gentleman, too. Damn all 
gentlemen, says I ! I should ha' thowt they'd 
hed anew of gentlefoalk, as I telled 'er to-daay 
when she fell foul upo' me. 

Minds ma o' summun. I could swear to that; 
but that be all one, fur I haates 'im afoor I 
knaws what 'e be. Theer ! he turns round. 
Philip Hedgar o' Soomerset ! Philip Hedgar o' 
Soomerset !—Noa— yeas— thaw the feller's gone 
and maade such a litter of his faace. 

Eh lad, if it be thou, I'll Philip tha ! a- 
plaayin' the saame gaame wi' my Dora — I'll 
Soomerset tha. 

I'd like to drag 'im thruff the herse-pond, and 
she to be a-lookin' at it. I'd like to leather 'im 
black and blue, and she to be a-laughin' at it. 
I'd like to fell 'im as dead as a bullock ! (Clinch- 
ing his fist,) 



136 THE PROMISE OF MA K act ir.. 

But what 'ud she saay to that ? She telled 
me once not to meddle \vi' 'im, and now she 
be fallen out wi' ma, and I can't coom at 'er. 

It mun be ///;;/. Noa ! Fur she'd niver 'a 
been talkin' haafe an hour wi' the divil 'at 
killed her oan sister, or she beant Dora Steer. 

Yeas ! Fur she niver knawed 'is faace when 
'e wur 'ere afoor; but FlI maake 'er knaw ! I'll 
maake 'er knaw ! 

£/iUr Harold. 
Naa\', feut I mun git out on 'is waiiy now, or I 
shall be the death on 'im. [Exif. 

Harold. 
How the clown glared at me ! that Dobbins, is 

it, 
With whom I used to jar ? but can he trace me 
Thro' five years' absence, and my change of name, 



ACT II. THE PROMISE OF MAY. 137 

The tan of Southern summers and the beard. 

I may as well avoid him. 

Ladylike ! 

Lilyhke in her stateliness and sweetness ! 

How came she by it ?— a daughter of the fields, 

This Dora ! 

She gave her hand, unask'd, at the farm-gate ; 

I almost think she half-returned the pressure 

Of mine. What, I that held the orange blos- 
som 

Dark as the yew? but may not those, who march 

Before their age, turn back at times, and make 

Courtesy to custom ? and now the stronger mo- 
tive. 

Misnamed free-will— the crowd would call it con- 
science — 

Moves me— to what? I am dreaming; for the 
past, 

Look'd thro' the present, Eva's eyes thro' her's— 



138 THE PROMISE OF MAY. act il 

A spell upon me ! Surely I loved Eva 
More than I knew ! or is it but the past 
That brightens in retiring ? Oh, last night, 
Tired, pacing my new lands at Littlechester, 
I dozed upon the bridge, and the black river 
Flow'd thro' my dreams — if dreams ihey were. 

She rose 
From the foul flood and pointed toward the 

farm, 
And her cry rang to me across the years, 
"I call you, Philip Edgar, Philip Edgar ! 
Come, you will set all right again, and father 
Will not die miserable." I could make his 

age 
A comfort to him — so be more at peace 
With mine own self Some of my former friends 
Would find my logic faulty; let them. Color 
Flows thro' my life again, and I have lighted 
On a new pleasure. Anyhow we must 



ACT II. THE PROMISE OF MA V. 139 

Move in the line of least resistance when 
The stronger motive rules. 

But she hates Edgar. 
May not this Dobbins, or some other, spy 
Edgar in Harold? Well then, I must make 

her 
Love Harold first, and then she will forgive 
Edgar for Harold's sake. She said herself 
She would forgive him, by and by, not now— 
For her own sake t/ieu, if not for mine — not 

now^ — 
But by and by. 

Enfer Dobson k/iind 

DOBSON. 

By and by— eh, lad, dosta knaw this paaper ? 
Ye dropt it npo' the road. " Philip Edgar, Esq." 
Ay, you be a pretty squire. I ha' fun' ye out, I 



140 THE PROMISE OF MA Y. act ii. 

hev. Eh, lad, closta knaw what tha means wi' 
by and by? Far if ye be goin' to sarve our Dora 
as ye sarved our Eva — then, by and by, if she 
weant listen to me when I be a-tryin' to saave 
'er — if she weiint — look to thysen, for, by the 
Lord, I'd think na moor o' maiikin' an end o' 
tha nor a carrion craw — noa — thaw they hanged 
ma at 'Size fur it. 

Harold. 
Dobbins, I think ? 

DOBSON. 

I beant Dobbins. 

Harold. 
Nor am I Edgar, my good fellow. 

DOBSON. 

Tha lies ! What hasta been saayin' to my 
Dora ? 



ACT II. THE PROMISE OF MAY, 141 

Harold. 
I have been telling her of the death of one 
Philip Edgar of Toft Hall, Somerset. 



DOBSON. 

Tha lies ! 



Harold (pulling out a nezvspaper). 
Well, my man, it seems that you can read. 
Look there — under the deaths. 

DOBSON. 

" O' the lyih, Philip Edgar, o' Toft Hall, 
Soomerset." How coom thou to be sa like 'im, 
then ? 

Harold. 

Naturally enough; for I am closely related to 
the dead man's family. 



142 THE PROMISE OF AIAY. act ir. 

DOBSON. 
An 'o\v coom thou by the letter to 'im ? 

Harold. 

Naturally again; for as I used to transact all 
his business for him, I had to look over his letters, 
Now then, see these (takes out tetters). Half a 
score of them, all directed to me— Harold. 

DOBSON. 

'Arold ! 'Arold ! 'Arold ; so they be. 

Harold. 
My name is Harold ! Good-day, Dobbins ! 

[Exit. 

DOBSON. 

'Arold. The feller's clean daazed, an' maazed, 
an' maated, an' muddled ma. Dead! It mun be 



ACT ir. THE PROMISE OF MAY. 143 

true, fur it wur i' print as black as owt. Naay,but 
"Good-daay, Dobbins." Why, that wur the very 
twang on 'im. Eh, lad, but whether thou be 
Hedgar, or Hedgar's business man, thou hesn't 
naw business 'ere wi' my Dora, as I knaws on, an' 
whether thou calls thysen Hedgar or Harold, if 
thou stick to she I'll stick to thee — stick to tha 
like a weasel to a rabbit, I will. Ay ! and I'd like 
to shoot tha like a rabbit an' all. "Good-daay, 
Dobbins." Dang tha ! 



ACT III. 

Scene. — A room in Steer's house. Door leading 
into bedroom at the hack. 

Dora (ringing a liandbcll). 
Milly ! 

Enter Milly. 

Milly. 

The little 'ymn ? Yeas, Miss ; but I wur so ta'en 

up wi' leadin' the owcl man about all the blessed 

murnin' 'at I ha' nobbut larned mysen haafe on it. 

"Oh, man, forgive thy mortal foe, 

Nor ever strike him blow for blow ; 



ACT iiT. THE PROMISE OF MAY. 145 

For all the souls on earth that live 
To be forgiven must forgive. 
Forgive him seventy times and seven: 
For all the blessed souls in heaven 
Are both forgivers and forgiven." 
But I'll git the book ageiin, and larn mysen the 

rest, and saay it to ye afoor dark ; ye ringed fur 

that, Miss, didn't ye ? 

Dora. 
No, Milly ; but if the farming men be come for 
their wages, to send them up to me. 

Milly. 
Yeas, Miss. \^Exit. 

Dora (sitting at desk counting money). 
Enough at any rate for the present. (Enter 

Farming Men.J Good-afternoon, my friends. I 
10 



14-6 THE PROMISE OF MA Y. act hi. 

am sorry Mr. Steer still continues too unwell to 
attend to you, but the schoolmaster looked to the 
paying you your wages when I was away, didn't he ? 

Men. 
Yeas ; and thanks to ye. 

Dora. 
Some of our workmen have left us, but he sent 
me an alphabetical list of those that remain, so, 
Allen, I may as well begin with you. 

Allen (zvith Jiis hand to his car). 
Halfabitical ! Taake one o' the young ones 
fust, !Miss, fur I be a bit deaf, and I wur hallus 
scaared by a big word ; leiistwaays, I should be wi' 
a lawyer. 

Dora. 
I spoke of your names, Allen, as they are ar- 



ACT III. THE PROMISE OF MA V. 147 

ranged hei-e^s/i07C's hook) — according to their first 
letters. 

Allen. 
Letters ! Yeas, I sees now. Them be what 
they larns the childer at school, but I were burn 
afore schoolin'-time. 

Dora. 

But, Allen, tho' you can't read, you could white- 
wash that cottage of yours where your grandson 
had the fever. 

Allen. 
I'll hev it done o' Monday. 

Dora. 
Else if the fever spread, the parish will have to 
thank you for it. 



148 THE PROMISE OF MA V. act hi. 

Allen. 
Mea ? why, it be the Lord's doin', noan o' mine ; 
d'ye think 7W gi'e 'em the fever? But I thanks 
ye all the saame, Miss. (Takes money.) 

Dora (calliug out names). 

Higgins, Jackson, Luscombe, Nokes, Oldham, 
Skipworth ! (All take money.) Did you find that 
you worked at all the worse upon the cold tea 
than you would have done upon the beer? 

Higgins. 
Noa, Miss ; we worked nav/ wuss upo' the cowd 
tea ; but we'd ha' worked better upo' the beer. 

Dora. 
Come, come, you worked well enough, and I 
am much obliged to all of you. There's for you, 



ACT III. THE PROMISE OF MA K 149 



and you, and you. Count the money and see if 
it's all right. 



Men. 
All right, Miss ; and thank ye kindly. 

[£xCU7lf LUSCOMBE, NOKES, OlDHAM, 

Skipworth. 

Dora. 
Dan Smith, my father and I forgave you steal- 
ing our coals. [Dan Smith advances to Dora. 

Dan Smith (bellowing). 
Whoy, O lor, Miss? that wur so longback, and 
the walls sa thin, and the winders brokken, and 
the weather sa cowd, and my missus a-gittin' ower 
'er lyin-in, 

Dora. 

Didn't f say that we had forgiven you? But, 



ISO THE PROMISE OF MAY. act hi. 

Dan Smith, they tell me that you — and you have 
six children — spent all your last Saturday's wages 
at the ale-house; that you were stupid drunk all 
Sunday, and so ill in consequence all Monday that 
you did not come into the hayfield. Why should 
I pay you your full wages ? 

Dan Smith. 
I be ready to taake the pledge. 

Dora. 

And as ready to break it agSin, Besides, it was 
you that were driving the cart — and I fear you 
were tipsy then, too — when you lamed the lady in 
the hollow lane. 

Dan Smith (bellowing). 
O lor, Miss ! noa, noa, noa ! Ye sees the holler 



ACT III. THE PROMISE OF MAY. 151 

laane be hallus sa dark i' the arternoon, and 
wheere the big esh-tree cuts athurt it, it gi'es a turn 
like, and 'o\v should I see to laame the laady, and 
mea coomin' along pretty sharp an' all ? 

Dora. 

Well, there are your wages ; the next time you 
waste them at a pothouse you get no more from 
me. (Exit Dan SmithJ Sally Allen, you 
worked for Mr. Dobson, didn't you ? 

Sally (advancifig). 
Yeas, Miss; but he wur so rough wi' ma, I 
couldn't abide 'im. 

Dora. 

Why should he be rough with you ? You are 
as good as a man in the hayfield. What's be- 
come of your brother? 



152 THE PROMISE OF MAY. act iii. 

Sally. 
'Listed for a soadger, Miss, i' the Queen's Real 
Hard Tillery. 

Dora. 
And your sweetheart — when are you and he to 
be married? 

Sally. 
At Michaehnas, Miss, please God. 

Dora. 
You are an honest pair. I will come to your 
wedding. 

Sally. 
An' I thanks ye fur that, Miss, moor nor fur 
the waage. 

( Going — 7'eiurns. ) 

'A cotched ma about the waaist, Miss, when 'e 
wur 'ere afoor, an' axed ma to be 'is little sweet- 



art, an' soa I knaw'd 'im when I seed 'im ageiin 
an I telled feyther on 'im. 

Dora. 
What is all this, Allen ? 

Allen. 
Why, Miss Dora, mea and my maates, us three, 
we wants to hev three words wi' ye. 

HiGGINS. 

That be 'im, and mea, Miss. 

Jackson. 
An' mea, Miss, 

Allen. 
An' we weant mention naw naames, we'd as lief 
talk o' the Divil afoor ye as 'im, fur they says the 
master goas clean off his 'ead when he 'ears the 



154 THE PROMISE OF MAY. act iir. 

naame on 'im ; but us three, arter Sally'd telled 
us oil 'im, we fun' 'im out a-walkin' i' West Field 
wi' a white 'at, nine o'clock, upo' Tuesday murn- 
in', and all on us, wi' your leave, we wants to 
leather 'im. 

Dora. 
Who? 

Allen. 
Him as did the mischief here, five year' sin'. 

Dora. 
Mr. Edgar? 

Allen. 
Theer, Miss ! You ha' naamed 'im — not me. 

Dora. 
He's dead, man— dead ; gone to his account — 
dead and buried. 



ACT III. THE PROMISE OF MAY. 155 

Allen. 
I beant sa sewer o' that, fur Sally knaw'd 'im ; 
Now then ? 

Dora. 
Yesj it was in the Somersetshire papers. 

Allen. 
Then yon mun be his brother, an' we'll leather 
Hm. 

Dora. 
I never heard that he had a brother. Some 
foolish mistake of Sally's; but what! would you 
beat a man for his brother's fault? That were a 
wild justice indeed. Let bygones be bygones. 
Go home ! Good-night ! (All exeunt.) I have 
once more paid them all. The work of the farm 
will go on still, but for how long? We are almost 



156 THE PROMISE OF MAY. act in. 

at the bottom of the well: little more to be drawn 
from it — and what then ? Encumbered as we are, 
who would lend us anything? We shall have to 
sell all the land, which Father, for a whole life, 
has been getting together, again, and that, I am 
sure, would be the death of him. What am I to 
do? Farmer Dobson, were I to marry him, has 
promised to keep our heads above water; and the 
man has doubtless a good heart, and a true and 
lasting love for me : yet — though I can be sorry 
for him — as the good Sally says, " I can't abide 
him" — almost brutal, and matched with my Har- 
old is like a hedge thistle by a garden rose. But 
then, he, too — will he ever be of one faith with his 
wife? which is my dream of a true marriage. Can 
I fancy him kneeling with me, and uttering the 
same prayer ; standing up side by side with me, 
and singing the same hymn ? I fear not. Have 
I done wisely, then, in accepting him ? But may 



ACT III. THE PROMISE OF MAY. 157 

not a girl's love-dream have too much romance in 
it to be realized all at once, or altogether, or any- 
where but in heaven ? And yet I had once a 
vision of a pure and perfect marriage, where the 
man and the woman, only differing as the stronger 
and the weaker, should walk hand in hand to- 
gether down this valley of tears, as they call it so 
truly, to the grave at the bottom, and lie down 
there together in the darkness which would seem 
but for a moment, to be wakened again together 
by the light of the resurrection, and no more part- 
ings forever and forever. (Walks tip and down. 
She sings.) 

" O happy lark, that warblest high 
Above thy lowly nest, 
O brook, that brawlest merrily by 
Thro' fields that once were blest. 



158 THE PROMISE OF MA V. act hi. 

O tower spiring to the sky, 

O graves in daisies drest, 
O Love and Life, how weary am I, 

And how I Ions: for rest." 



There, there, I am a fool ! Tears ! I have some- 
times been moved lo tears by a chapter of fine 
writing in a novel ; but what have I to do with 
tears now? All depends on me — Father, this 
poor girl, the farm, everything; and they both 
love me — I am all in all to both ; and he loves 
me too, I am quite sure of that. Courage, 
courage ! and all will go well. (Goes to bedroom 
door ; opens it.) How dark your room is ! Let 
me bring you in here where there is still full 
daylight. (Brings Eva forivard.) Why, you 
look better. 



ACT III. THE PROMISE OF MA Y, it^^ 

Eva. 
And I feel so much better that I trust I may 
be able by and by to help you in the business of 
the f\irm ; but I must not be known yet. Has any 
one found me out, Dora ? 

Dora. 

Oh, no ; you kept your veil too close for that 
when they carried you in ; since then, no one has 
seen you but myself. 

Eva. 
Yes— this Milly. 

Dora. 

Poor blind Father's little guide, Milly, who 

came to us three years after you were gone, how 

should she know you? But now that you have 

been brought to us as it were from the grave, 



i6o THE PROMISE OF MA V. act hi. 

dearest Eva, and have been here so long, will you 
not speak with Father to-day ? 

Eva. 
Do you think that I may? No, not yet. I 
am not equal to it yet. 

Dora. 
Why ? Do you still suffer from your fall in the 
hollow lane ? 

Eva. 
Bruised ; but no bones broken. 

Dora. 
I have always told Father that the huge old 
ash-tree there would cause an accident some day ; 
but he would never cut it dovv'n, because one of 
the Steers had planted it there in former times. 



ACT III. THE PROMISE OF MA V. i6i 

Eva. 

If it had killed one of the Steers there the 
other day, it might have been better for her, for 
him, and for you. 

Dora. 
Come, come, keep a good heart ! Better for 
me ! That's good. How better for me ? 

Eva. 

You tell me you have a lover. Will he not fly 
from you if he learn the story of my shame and 
that I am still living ? 

Dora. 

No; I am sure that when we are married he 

will be willing that you and Father should live 

with us ; for, indeed, he tells me that he met you 

once in the old times, and was much taken with 

you, my dear. 
II 



i62 THE PROMISE OF MAY. act iir. 

Eva. 
Taken with me ; who was he ? Have you told 
him I am here ? 

Dora. 
No ; do you wish it ? 

Eva. 
See, Dora ; you yourself are ashamed of me 
(weeps), and I do not wonder at it. 

Dora. 
But I should wonder at myself if it were so. 
Have we not been all in all to one another from 
the time when we first peeped into the bird's nest, 
waded in the brook, ran after the butterflies, and 
prattled to each other that we would marry fine 
gentlemen, and played at being fine ladies.-* 



ACT III. THE PROMISE OF MAY. 163 

Eva. 

That last was my Father's fault, poor man. 
And this lover of yours — this Mr. Harold — is a 
gentleman? 

Dora. 
That he is, from head to foot. I do believe I 
lost my heart to him the very first time we met, 
and I love him so much — 

Eva. 
Poor Dora i 

Dora. 
That I dare not tell him how much I love him. 

Eva. 
Better not. Has he offered you marriage, this 
gentleman } 



i64 THE PROMISE OF MA V. act hi. 

Dora. 
Could I love him else ? 

Eva. 

And are you quite sure that after marriage this 
gentleman will not be shamed of his poor farmer's 
daughter among the ladies in his drawing-room ? 

Dora. 
Shamed of me in a drawing-room ! Wasn't 
Miss Vavasour, our schoolmistress at Littleches- 
ter, a lady born ? Were not our fellow-pupils all 
ladies ? Wasn't dear mother herself at least by 
one side a lady? Can't I speak like a lady; pen 
a letter like a lady; talk a little French like a 
lady; play a little like a lady? Can't a girl 
when she loves her husband, and he her, make 
herself anything he wishes her to be ? Shamed of 



ACT iiL THE PROMISE OF MA V. 165 

me in a drawing-room, indeed! See here! "I 
hope your -Lordship is quite recovered of your 
gout ?" (Courtesies.) " Will your Ladyship 
ride to cover to-day? (Courtesies.) I can rec- 
ommend our Voltigeur." " I am sorry that we 
could not attend your Grace's party on the 
loth !" {Courtesies.) There, I am glad my non- 
sense has made you smile ! 

Eva. 
I have heard that "your Lordship," and "your 
Ladyship," and " your Grace " are all growing 
old-fashioned ! 

Dora. 

But the love of sister for sister can never be 

old-fashioned. I have been unwilling to trouble 

you with questions, but you seem somewhat better 

lo-day. We found a letter in your bedroom torn 



i66 THE PROMISE OF MA Y. act hi. 

into bits. I couldn't make it out. What was 
it? 

Eva. 
From him ! from him ! He said we had been 
most happy together, and he trusted that some 
time we should nneet again, for he had not forgot- 
ten his promise to come when I called him. But 
that was a mocker}^, you know, for he gave me no 
address, and there was no word of marriage; and, 
oh, Dora, he signed himself " Yours gratefully " 
— fancy, Dora, " gratefully " ! " Yours gratefully " ! 

Dora. 
Infamous wretch ! (Aside.) Shall I tell her 
he is dead ? No ; she is still too feeble. 

Eva. 

Hark, Dora ; some one is coming. I cannot 
and I will not see anybody. 



ACT HI. THE PROMISE OF MAY. 167 

Dora. 
It is only Milly. 

Enter Milly, ivith basket of roses. 

Dora. 
Well, Milly, why do you come in so roughly? 
The sick lady here might have been asleep. 

Milly. 
Please, Miss, Mr. Dobson telled me to saay he's 
browt some of Miss Eva's roses for the sick laady 
to smell on. 

Dora. 
Take them, dear. Say that the sick lady 
thanks him ! Is he here ? 

Milly. 
Yeas, Miss j and he wants to speak to ye par- 
tic'lar. 



i68 THE PROMISE OF MAY. act in. 

Dora. 
Tell him I cannot leave the sick lady just yet. 

MiLLY,. 

Yeas, Miss; but he says he wants to tell ye 
summut very partic'iar, 

Dora. 
Not to-day. What are you staying for } 

MiLLY. 

Why, Miss, I be afeard I shall set him a-swear- 
ing like ony think. 

Dora. 
And what' harm will that do you, so that you do 
not copy his bad manners? Go, child. (Exit 
MiLLY.y) But, Eva, why did you write " Seek me 
at the bottom of the river .^" 



ACTiir. THE PROMISE OF MAY. 169 

Eva. 
Why ? because I meant it !— that dreadful 
night ! that lonely walk to Littlechester, the rain 
beating in my face all the way, dead midnight 
when I came upon the bridge ; the river, black, 
slimy, swirling under me in the lamplight, by the 
rotten wharfs— but I was so mad that I mounted 
upon the parapet — 



Dora. 

You make me shudder ! 



Eva. 
To fling myself over, when I heard a voice, 
" Girl, what are you doing there ?" It was a Sis- 
ter of Mercy, come from the death-bed of a pauper, 
who had died in his misery blessing God, and the 



170 THE PROMISE OF MAY. act iii. 

Sister look me to her house, and bit by bit — for 
she promised secrecy — I told her all. 



Dora. 

And what then ? 

Eva. 
She would have persuaded me to come back 
here, but I couldn't. Then she got me a place as 
nursery governess, and when the children grew 
too old for me, and I asked her once more to 
help me, once more she said, " Go home ;" but I 
hadn't the heart or face to do it. And then — 
what would Father say ? I sank so low that I 
went into service — the drudge of a lodging-house 
— and when the mistress died, and I appealed to 
the Sister again, her answer — I think I have it 
about me— yes, there it is! 



ACT III. THE PROMISE OF MAY. 171 

Dora (reads). 
" My dear Child, — I can do no more for you. 
I have done wrong in keeping your secret ; your 
Father must be now in extreme old age. Go back 
to him and ask his forgiveness before he dies. — 
Sister Agatha." Sister Agatha is right. Don't 
you long for Father's forgiveness ? 



Eva. 

I would almost die to have it ! 



Dora. 
And he may die before he gives it; may drop 
off any day, any hour. You must see him at once. 
(Rings hell. Enter Milly.J Milly, my dear, how 
did you leave Mr. Steer? 



172 THE PROMISE OF MAY. act iii. 

MiLLY. 

Pie's been a-moaniii' and a-groanin' in 'is sleep, 
but I thinks he be wakkenin' oop. 

Dora. 
Tell him that I and the lady here wish to see 
him. You see she is lamed, and cannot' go down 
to him. 

MiLLY. 

Yeas, Miss, I will. \^Exit Milly. 

Dora. 
I ought to prepare you. You must not expect 
^o find our Father as he was five years ago. He 
is much altered; but I trust that your return — for 
you know, my dear, you were always his favorite 
— will give him, as they sa\'-, a new lease of life. 



ACT III. THE PROMISE OF MAY. 173 

Eva (dinging to Dora J. 
Oh, Dora, Dora ! 

Enter Steer, led by Milly. 

Steer. 
Hes the cow cawved ? 

Dora. 

No, Father. 

Steer. 
Be the colt dead t 

Dora. 
No, Father. 

Steer. 
He wur sa bellows'd out wi' the wind this 
murnin', 'at I tell'd 'em to gallop 'im. Be he 
dead t 



174 THE PROMISE OF MAY. act hi. 

Dora. 
Not that I know. 

Steer. 
What hasta sent fur me, then, fur? 

Dora (taking Steer's a?-m). 
Well, Father, I have a surprise for you. 

Steer. 
I ha niver been surprised but once i' my life, 
and I went bhnd upon it. 

Dora. 
Eva has come home. 

Steer, 
Hoam ? fro' the bottom o' the river? 



ACT III. THE PROMISE OF MAY. 175 



Dora. 



No, Father, that was a mistake. She's here again. 



Steer. 
• The Steers was all gentlefoalks i' the owcl 
times, an' I worked early an' laate to maake 'em 
all gentlefoalks age^n. The land belonged to the 
Steers i' the owd times, an' it belongs to the Steers 
agean : I bowt it back agean ; but I couldn't buy 
my darter back agean when she lost hersen, could 
I? I eddicated boath on 'em to marry gentlemen, 
an' one on 'em went an' lost hersen i' the river. 

Dora. 

No, father, she's here. 

Steer. 
Here ! she moant coom here. What would her 
mother saay ? If it be her ghoast, we mun abide it. 
We can't keep a ghoast out. 



176 THE PROMISE OF MAY. act iii. 



Eva (falling at his feet). 



Oh, forgive me ! forgive me ! 



Steer. 
Who said that? Taake me awaay, little gel). 
It be one o' my bad daays. 

\_Exit Steer led by Milly, 

Dora (smoothing Eva's forehead). 
Be not so cast down, my sweet Eva. You heard 
him say it was one of his bad days. He will be 
sure to know you to-morrow. 

Eva. 
It is almost the last of my bad days, I think. 
I am very faint. I must lie down. Give me your 
arm. Lead me back again. 

[Dora takes Eva into inner room. 



ACT III. THE PROMISE OF MAY. 177 

Enter INIilly. 

MiLLY. 

Miss Dora ! Miss Dora ! 

Dora (7'eturning and leaving thehedroom door ajar). 
Quiet! quiet! What is it? 

MiLLY. 

Mr. 'Arolcl, Miss. 

Dora. 
Below ? 

MiLLY. 

Yeas, Miss. He be saayin' a word to the owcl 
man, but he'll coom up if ye lets 'im. 

Dora. 

Tell him, then, that I'm waiting for him. 
12 



178 THE PROMISE OF MAY. act in. 

MiLLY. 
Yeas, Miss. 

S^Exit. Dora sits pensively and waits. 
Enter Harold. 

Harold. 
You are pale, my Dora ! but the ruddiest cheek 
That ever charm'd the ploughman of your wolds 
Might wish its rose a lily, could it look 
But half as lovely. I was speaking with 
Your father, asking his consent — you wish'd me — 
That we should marry : he would answer nothing, 
I could make nothing of him ; but, my flower, 
You look so weary and so worn ! What is it 
Has put you out of heart t 

Dora. 

It puts me in heart 



79 



ACT III. THE PROMISE OF MAY. 

Again to see you ; but indeed the state 
Of my poor father puts me out of heart. 
Is yours yet living? 

Harold. 

No— I told you. 

Dora. 

When .? 

Harold, 
Confusion !— Ah well, well ! the state we all 
Must come to in our spring-and-winter world 
If we live long enough ! and poor Steer looks 
The very type of Age in a picture, bow'd 
To the earth he came from, to the grave he goes to, 
Beneath the burden of years. 

Dora. 

More like the picture 



i8o THE PROMISE OF MAY. act iii. 

Of Christian in my "Pilgrim's Progress" here, 
Bow'd to the dust beneath the burden of sin. 



Harold. 
Sin ! What sin ? 

Dora. 

Not his own. 



Still read, then ? 



Harold. 

That nursery-tale 



Dora. 
Yes ; our carters and our shepherds 
Still find a comfort there. 

Harold. 

Carters and shepherds ! 



ACT III. THE PROMISE OF MAY. i8i 

Dora. 
Scorn ! I hate scorn. A soul with no religion — 
My mother used to say that such a one 
Was without rudder, anchor, compass — might be 
Blown everyway with every gust and wreck 
On any rock ; and tho' you are good and gentle, 
Yet if thro' any want — 

Harold. 

Of this religion ? 
Child, read a little history, you will find 
The common brotherhood of man has been 
Wrong'd by the cruelties of his religions 
]\lore than could ever have happen'd thro' the want 
Of any or all of them. 

Dora. 
— But, O dear friend, 



i82 THE PROMISE OF MA V. act hi. 

If thro' the want of any — I mean the true one — 

And pardon me for saying it — you should ever 

Be tempted into doing what might seem 

Not altogether worthy of you, I think 

That I should break my heart, for you have taught 

me 
To love you. 

Harold. 
What is this ? some one been stirring 
Against ms? he, your rustic amourist, 
The polish'd Damon of your pastoral here. 
This Dobson of your idyll ? 

Dora. 

No. Sir, no ! 
Did you not tell me he was crazed with jealousy. 
Had thveaten'd ev'n your life, and would say any- 
thing? 



ACT III. THE PROMISE OF MAY. 1S3 

Did /not iDromise not to listen to him 
Not ev'n to see the man ? 

Harold. 

Good ; then what is it 
That makes you talk so dolefully ? 

Dora, 

I told you— 
My father. Well, indeed, a friend just now, 
One that has been much wrong'd, whose griefs are 

mine, 
Was warning me that if a gentleman 
Should wed a fiirmer's daughter, he would be 
Sooner or later shamed of her among 
The ladies, born his equals, 

Harold. 

More fool he ! 



184 THE PROMISE OF MAY. act iir. 

What I that have been call'd a Socialist, 
A Communist, a Nihilist— what you will — 



Dora. 
What are all these ? 

Harold. 
Utopian idiotcies, 

They did not last three Junes. Such rampant 

weeds 
Strangle each other, die, and make the soil 
For Ccesars, Cromwells, and Napoleons 
To root their power in. I have freed myself 
From all such dreams, and some will say because 
I have inherited my Uncle. Let them. 
But — shamed of you, my Empress ! I should prize 
The pearl of Beauty, even if I found it 
Dark with the soot of slums. 



ACT III. THE PROMISE OF MAY, 185 

Dora. 

But I can tell you, 
We Steers are of old blood, tbo' we be fallen. 
See tbere our shield. ( Point'mg to arms on inaniel- 

piece.) For I have heard the Steers 
Had land in Saxon times ; and your own name 
Of Harold sounds so English and so old 
I am sure you must be proud of it. 

Harold. 

Not I ! 
As yet I scarcely feel it mine. I took it 
For some three thousand acres. I have land now 
And wealth, and lay both at your feet. 

Dora. 

And what was 

Your name before? 



i86 THE PROMISE OF MA V. act in. 



Harold. 

Come, come, my girl, enough 
Of this strange talk. I love you and you me. 
True, I have held opinions, hold some still. 
Which you would scarce approve of: for all that, 
I am a man not prone to jealousies, 
Caprices, humors, moods j but very ready 
To make allowances, and mighty slow 
To feel offences. Nay, I do believe 
I could forgive — well, almost anything— 
And that more freely than your formal priest, 
Because I know more fully than /le can 
What poor earthworms are all and each of us, 
Here crawling in this boundless Nature. Dora, 
If marriage ever brought a woman happiness 
I doubt not I can make you happy. 



ACT iir. THE PROMISE OF MAY. 187 

Dora. 

You make me 
Happy already. 

Harold. 
And I never said 
As much before to any woman living, 

Dora. 

No? 

Harold. 

No ! by this true kiss, you are the first 

I ever have loved truly. {They kiss each other, 

. Eva (with a wild cry). 

Philip Edgar! 

Harold. 
The phantom cry! You — did you hear a cry? 



i88 THE PROMISE OF MA Y. act hi. 

Dora. 
She must be crying out " Edgar " in her sleep. 

Harold. 
Who must be crying out "Edgar" in her sleep? 

Dora. 
Your pardon for a minute. She must be waked. 

Harold. 
Who must be waked.'* 

Dora. 
I am not deaf: you fright me. 
What ails you ? 

Harold. 
■" Speak. 

Dora. 

You know her, Eva. 



ACT III. THE PROMISE OF MAY. 189 

Harold. 

Eva ! 
[Eva opens the door and stands in the entry. 
She! 

Eva. 

Make her happy, then, and I forgive you. 

[^Falls dead. 

Dora. 
Happy! What? Edgar? Is it so? Can it be? 
They told me so. Yes, yes ! I see it all now. 
Oh, she has f^iinted. Sister, Eva, sister! 
He is yours again — he will love you again ; 
I give him back to you again. Look up ! 
One word, or do but smile ! Sweet, do you hear me? 
\^Puts her hand on Eva's heart. 
There, there — the heart, O God !— the poor young 
heart 



I go THE PROMISE OF MAY. act hi. 

Broken at last — all still — and nothing left 

To live for. {_Falls on body of her sister. 

Harold. 

Living . . . dead . . , She said " all still. 
Nothing to live for." 

She — she knows me — now . . . 
(A pause.) 
She knew me from the first, she juggled with 

me, 
She hid this sister, told me she was dead — 
I have wasted pity on her — not dead now — 
No ! acting, playing on me, both of them. 
They drag the river for her ! no, not they ! 
Playing on me — not dead now — a swoon — a 

scene — 
Yet — how she made her wail as for the dead ! 



ACT III. ' THE PROMISE OF MAY. 191 

Enter Milly. 

MiLLY. 

Please, Mister 'Arolcl— 

Harold (roughly). 
Well ? 

Milly. 
The owcl man's coom'd agean to 'issen, an' wants 
To hev a word wi' ye about the marriage. 

Harold. 
The what ? 

Milly. 
The marriage. 

Harold. 

The marriage? 

Milly. 

Yeas, the marriage. 
Granny says marriages be maade i' 'eaven. 



192 THE PROMISE OF MAY. act in. 

Harold. 

She lies ! They are made in hell. Child, can't 

you see? 
Tell them to fly for a doctor. 

MiLLY. 

O law — yeas, sir ! 
I'll run fur 'im mysen. 

Harold. 

All silent there, 
Yes, deathlike ! Dead ? I dare not look: if dead. 
Were it best to steal away, to spare myself, 
And her too, pain, pain, pain } 

My curse on all 
This world of mud, on all its idiot gleams 
Of pleasure, all the foul fatalities 
That blast our natural passions into pains! 



ACT III. THE PROMISE OF MA V. I93 

£;i/er DoBSON. 

DOBSON. 

You, Master Hedgar, Harold, or whativer 
They calls ye, for I warrants that ye goas 
By haafe a scoor o' naames-out o' the chaumber. 
{Dragging Jiim past the body. 

Harold. 
Not that way, man! Curse on your brutal 

strength ! 
I cannot pass that way. 

DOBSON. 

Out o' the chaumber ! 
I'll mash tha into nowt. 

Harold. 

The mere wild-beast ! 

DOBSON. 

Out o' the chaumber, dang tha! 
13 



194 THE PROMISE OF MAY. act hi. 

Harold. 

Lout, churl, clown ! 
SjVhile they are sJiouiing and struggling Dora 
rises and comes between them. 

Dora (to Dobson^. 
Peace, let him be : it is the chamber of Death ! 
Sir, you are tenfold more a gentleman, 
A hundred times more worth a woman's love, 
Than this, this — but I waste no words upon him : 
His wickedness is like my wretchedness — 
Beyond all language. 

(To Harold J 

You — you see her there ! 
Only fifteen when first you came on her. 
And then the sweetest flower of all the wolds, 
So lovely in the promise of her May, 



ACT III. THE PROMISE OF MAY, 19S 

So winsome in her grace and gayety, 
So loved by all the village people here, 
So happy in herself and in her home— 

r3oBSON (agitated). 
Theer, theer 1 ha' done. I can't abear to see her. 

S^Exit. 

Dora. 
A child, and all as trustful as a child! 
Five years of shame and suffering broke the 

heart 
That only beat for you ; and he, the father, 
Thro' that dishonor which you brought upon us. 
Has lost his health, his eyesight, even his mind. 

Harold (covering his face). 
Enough ! 

Dora. 
It seem'd so ; only there was left 



196 THE PROMISE OF MA K act hi. 

A second daughter, and to her you came 
Veiling one sin to act another. 

Harold. 

No! 

You wrong me there ! hear, hear me ! I wish'd, 
if you— {^Pauses. 

Dora. 
Ifl— 

Harold. 
Could love me, could be brought to love me 
As I loved you — 

Dora. 
What then ? 

Harold. 

I wish'd, I hoped 
To make, to make — 



ACT III. THE PROMISE OF MA Y. 



197 



Dora. 
What did you hope to make ? 

Harold. 
'Twere best to make an end of my lost life. 
O Dora, Dora ! 

Dora. 
What did you hope to make.^ 

Harold. 
Make, make ! I cannot find the word — forgive 

it- 
Amends. 

Dora. 
For what } to whom ? 

Harold. 

To him, to you ! 

{Falling at her feet. 



198 THE PROMISE OF MA Y. act hi. 

Dora. 
To him I to me! 

No, not with all your wealth, 
Your land, your life ! Out in the fiercest storm 
That ever made earth tremble — he, nor I — 
The shelter oi your roof — not for one moment — 
Nothing from you ! 
Sunk in the deepest pit of pauperism, 
Push'd from all doors as if we bore the plague, 
Smitten with fever in the open field. 
Laid famine-stricken at the gates of Death — 
Nothing from you ! 

But she there — her^Iast word 
Forgave — and I forgive you. If you ever 
Forgive yourself, you are even lower and baser 
Than even I can well believe you. Go ! 

\He lies at her feet. Curtain falls. 



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